


i know we only met (but let's pretend it's love)

by LMoriarty



Category: Carmilla (Web Series)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Beauty and the Beast, Carmilla Karnstein as Beast (Beauty and the Beast), F/F, Laura Hollis as Beauty (Beauty and the Beast)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-15
Updated: 2017-09-15
Packaged: 2018-12-30 00:22:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 30,313
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12096621
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LMoriarty/pseuds/LMoriarty
Summary: There is a story.(Have you heard it before? A girl, a beast, a dying flower. Do you know what happens when the last petal falls?)There is a story, and it is about a girl, one that’s tired of her life, tired of the boy who wants to wed her. Tired of not being able to love another girl. Tired of not having any girlstolove. There is a story, and it is about another girl, too. One that's morethingthangirl, more monster than lover. More beast than human.There is a story, and it is aboutthem.





	i know we only met (but let's pretend it's love)

There is a story.

(Have you heard it before? A girl, a beast, a dying flower. Do you know what happens when the last petal falls?)

There is a story, and it is about a girl, one that’s tired of her life, tired of the boy who wants to wed her. Tired of not being able to love another girl. Tired of not having any girls _to_ love.

There is a story, and it is about another girl, too. One that's more _thing_ than _girl_ , more monster than lover. More beast than human.

There is a story, and it is about _them_.

(Beauty and the—)

One of them human, one a little bit different.

 _What sharp teeth you have_ , says a girl. _All the better to kill you with_ , replies the beast.

Isn't that how the story goes? Isn't that how the story always goes?

(—beast.)

There is a story, and it is about a girl, a beast, a dying flower. There is a story, and it is about furniture that can talk, that can move, that can sing. There is a story, and it is about men, bloodthirsty men, men that are all take, take, take. It is about the men your mother warns you about, as a child.

There is a story, and it is about love.

But who could ever learn to love a beast? And how do you define love, if not:

Icarus, loving the sun, flying to the sun, catching fire and falling from the sun. What's love without a little pain? _Love will have its sacrifices_.

(Hold up the world, Atlas.

Your punishment will fit the crime.)

But what did the beast do, to deserve this punishment? Open a door, refuse entry on their birthday? Do beasts have birthdays?

If they do not, then how did she?

What if a beast is not a beast at all, but instead—

Do you know what happens when the last petal falls? Close your eyes. Go back to the beginning. Learn the song, the dance, the rhythm. Learn the words. Learn the story.

* * *

There is a story, and this is how it starts: 

A girl, a castle, a ball. A loud knock, a creaking door, a refusal of entry. A death. A transformation.

A beast.

But let's not get ahead of ourselves.

There is a girl. A young girl, only eighteen years old, with skin white as snow, lips red as blood, and hair black as ebony. (Close your eyes. Picture her. Does she look familiar?) You may call her Mircalla, for now. Later, the beast. Later still, Carmilla. She is in a dress, because it is a ball, and balls require dresses. Hers is a dark red; close to the color of blood, but not quite. (It’ll be easy to tell the difference, later, when the dress is half silk—

—half _blood_.)

If there is ever to be pictures put in dictionaries, you know that she will be next to _beautiful_.

Nobody in the land, in all of the lands, could ever compare. Not yet. Not until Laura comes to town, all those years later. And so Mircalla the countess is the prettiest, the wittiest, the _best_ . The boys love her, the _girls_ love her. (She only ever loves the girls back, of course. Only ever loves _Ell_ back.)

It is a ball.

Mircalla dances, twirls, spins.

Presses her mouth to jaws, throats, shoulders. Anywhere but lips. Her teeth get caught, occasionally; dig into skin, pry out a _please_ , a _don't stop_ , a _keep going, keep going, keep_ —

(Her teeth are sharp, even now, even _before_. No wonder they're so deadly, _after_.)

Mircalla smiles, keeps dancing.

Doesn't stop.

Only after the doors of her palace slam open does Mircalla pause, and turn. She peers at the women that enters with something akin to contempt, but stays silent, waits. Waits.

Waits.

(She doesn't need to wait long.)

The women — _Lilita_ , she introduces herself — spins a grand tale, talks of long roads and sore feet and thunderous storms. Mircalla has heard this story, before. She knows what's coming. When Lilita finally finishes, finally asks if she can stay the night, finally hands over the rose in her hand, Mircalla knows she should simply shut the door. She knows better than to let a stranger inside, but she hesitates nonetheless.

The door stays open, a second longer.

Her castle is large, has more than enough rooms for one more guest. There is nothing stopping her from saying yes.

But.

It is her birthday. Her eighteenth birthday, the most important birthday. Mircalla knows what Lilita wants, knows that she’ll sneak away in the morning with her jewelry and her gold. Knows that she will turn cruel if refused. Any other day, Mircalla might not care. But _today_ —

She looks her in the eyes, and says, “No.”

The gentle woman who had spoken so very softly before is gone in an instant. In her place is the same face, same body, but she's sneering, spitting insults instead of kind pleas. Telling her she’ll regret this. Telling her _I’ll be back._

(Mircalla saw this coming, too, of course.

She has heard this story before.)

The door is shut.

All is silent.

And then the music is back, and Mircalla is dancing, laughing, singing. ( _Glamor, music, and magic combine_ —)

It does not take long for the door to open once more.

It is the woman again, Mircalla knows, but she looks different. Looks _deadly_. Instead of Lilita, she calls herself _Inanna_. (Mircalla has heard that name before. It's the name of a _god_.)

Mircalla expects to die.

She does, in a way. Ends up on the floor, gasping for breath, dress soaked in her own blood. The difference in color is startling, even as she’s dying, even as she's trying to focus on something, anything, else.

Inanna stands over her, all hate. She speaks of Mircalla’s parents, of _Ell_ , and Mircalla realizes she hates her, with everything she has. She should've closed the doors sooner. Should've locked them, gotten guards to stand by. Should've done _something_.

Her eyes close.

Inanna keeps talking. “If you can learn to love another and earn their love in return by the time the last petal falls,” she says, “the spell will be broken.”

Mircalla doesn't have the energy to open her eyes, not now, not when she's less girl more ghost, but she is horrified, and she's sure it shows on her face. She is supposed to _die_ , not—

She smiles down at her. “If not,” Inanna finishes, “you will be doomed to remain a beast for all time.”

This is not a kindness, Mircalla knows. It’s written all over her face— who could ever love _you_?

Inanna laughs. Leaves.

Does not look back.

Her hands touch her face, gently. Her skin had been so smooth, before. Now it's— furry? Mircalla freezes there, on the floor. What did Inanna _do_? She has stopped bleeding, the pain is gone, but Mircalla isn't sure that's a good thing. Not if her skin — her perfect skin! — is gone. Her hands trail down, down, down, all the way to her mouth. Mircalla presses skin to tooth, gentle as she can. Her thumb comes away bloody. Mircalla stumbles to her feet, seeks out a mirror. Stares into it, horrified.

(Who could ever learn to love a beast?)

* * *

There is a story, and it starts bad. Starts with dying girls and ruined dresses and sharp teeth. No beauty, all _beast_. 

Petals fall, fall, fall, and nobody visits the castle. Nobody remembers the castle. Nobody knows the castle even exists.

Mircalla loses hope.

There is no girl, here. Only thing. Only _beast_.

(You know what happens next, don't you? When everything is meek, when it seems like there's no hope— haven't you heard this story before? 

There is always a girl to save the day.)

* * *

Laura knows she's considered odd, in this little town. All the other girls are content to prance about, daydream about boys in uniforms. About _Will_.

Laura is not.

She wants more out of life, always has. Always will. Misses her first home with everything she has, even though she can only remember it in the stories her father tells. Laura was only a baby, when they left.

Father, daughter. Off to see the world.

(The world turns out to be a small village in the middle of nowhere, where nothing ever changes.

Laura hates it. Would rather die than stay.

Stays anyway.)

She is hated as soon as she arrives. _A girl that can read_ , they say, _is no girl at all_.

Laura grows used to the sneers, eventually. Grows used to being called odd, peculiar. Funny. (It used to be a compliment, that. Not now. Not here.) But being _used_ to something does not mean it doesn't still hurt. It aches, every time. She wants to yell, scream, rage at them; take the facts and force them to listen. Tell them: _No_. Tell them: _Girls are just as capable as men_. Tell them: _Men should not get to dictate who we are and what we do_.

Tell them: _There is a monster, lurking beneath Will’s pretty face_.

Tell them: _He scares me, sometimes, and how dare you say that's okay. How dare you say that's attractive._

(Listen to them say: _Don’t be silly, Laura. You're lucky to have a man like that interested in you_.)

Laura wishes with everything she has that he _wasn't_. There is no luck, here. Just _man_. (Isn't that the scariest kind of monster?) Her life would be easier if Will only went after the girls that actually desired him, but he likes _her_ , instead. Asks her to marry him, day in, day out.

Laura would sooner die than say _yes_.

(He never even asks her father for permission.)

She rejects him, ignores his advances. Reads instead. They don't have many books, here. Most are illiterate, so it's just the same handful again and again. Laura can't bring herself to care.

They're good books.

Laura is sure that one day, she will see a real library. She thinks she’d like that, all those books. She wonders where she’ll start. A romance, perhaps. Laura has always liked those.

Well.

 _Fictional_ romances.

They're better than real ones, anyway. The girls actually love the boys back, in the books.

(Laura could never love a boy.

Certainly could never love _Will_.)

Laura enters the bookshop. Well, shop that has books. There's only ten, maybe, in total. There are no new books, are never any new books, but Laura still asks. Still has to ask. Just in case. (She doesn't know what she will do, if there is, one day. There has never been a new book before.)

Laura sighs. Trades one book in for another.

In this one, the girl meets Prince Charming in the first few pages, doesn't know it until chapter three. Laura wonders if she's met her Prince Charming, but doesn't know it yet. (Wonders if maybe her Prince Charming can be a princess, instead.)

She makes a few stops on her way home. Skims a few more chapters of the book, helps a little girl learn to read a bit better. It's right as she gets home that everything goes wrong.

Will grabs her arm, spins her around. “Good morning, Laura,” he says, and there is nothing _kind_ about his smile. Will pulls out a bouquet of flowers, hands them to her. Laura takes them, but knows she's going to throw them out the first chance she gets. She loves flowers — loves _roses_ — but certainly does not love _Will_. (Doesn't even particularly _like_ him, either.)

Laura stares at him, for a long moment, and then realizes he's waiting for her to answer. “Thanks? I guess. Anyway, I should— go. I have… stuff. That I need to do. Without you. So, you know. Bye.”

He reaches out, and Laura jerks back to avoid his hand. He sighs, loud and aggravated, but doesn't try to grab her again, and for that Laura is thankful. “Shall I join you for dinner?”

Laura tries her best not to roll her eyes. Doesn't quite manage. (Doesn't quite care.) “What,” she says. Stares. “Uh— not this evening?” Or any evening, ever. Laura can't bring herself to say the words out loud, but she wants to scream them at him, wants to _force_ him to leave her alone. (She knows what will happen if she tries, of course. Will has always been less human, more _monster_.)

Will frowns. “Busy?”

She glances at Kirsch, who is just behind him. Laura doesn't know why he's still around. Doesn't necessarily _want_ to know. For a boy that nice to always be near a guy like Will— there has to be something she’s missing. (Sometimes, she thinks she might have an idea. The look in Kirsch’s eyes whenever he looks at Will could be mere adoration, but.

It could also be _love_.)

Laura knows it's ridiculous, that she's simply imagining things. All the stories are about a boy, and a girl. Not two boys.

(Not two girls.)

Still, there are _moments_. Brief glances, shy smiles. A whole lot of flirting. There aren't any books with boys loving boys, not in this town, but maybe there are in other towns. Maybe it's not as ridiculous a thought as she originally assumed. ( _You can ask any Tom, Dick, or Stanley, and they'll tell you whose team they'd prefer to be on_ —)

Laura’s seen the bite marks on Kirsch’s stomach after he gets a touch too drunk at the bar. Maybe they were simply wrestling ( _in a wrestling match, nobody bites like Will_ ) but those were always very, very low on his body.

“Laura?” says Will. “You zoned out. Was it because of my good looks?” He winks. If anything, it makes him even less attractive, although Laura spots someone swoon off to the side. “Because if you're finally willing to admit that I’m handsome, you should marry m—”

“No,” Laura says, immediately. “And, no, not because I'm busy. I just don't like you. Bye.”

She turns, walks into her house.

Does not look back.

( _Laura could never love a boy_.)

“Hi daddy,” she says, and hugs him from behind. Tight as she can. “Were you worried, yet?” Laura loves him, of course she loves him, but his overprotective nature can get a touch frustrating, sometimes. Still, she could never resent him for it. It's what protects her from Will.

“Yes, yes, I’m a worrier, laugh it up,” he says. Leans back into her. “Was that Will I heard?”

Laura makes a face. Nods. “I hope he gets the hint soon,” she tells him, even though she knows he won’t. Men like that never get the hint.

(Men like that? They're the kind of men that mothers warn their children about.

Laura’s mother never got the chance.)

“Me too, dear,” Sherman says.

She hugs him a little tighter. Just because she can. “Are you leaving for the market, soon?” Laura asks. Knows the answer is yes. Hopes for a no, anyway.

“I was just waiting for you to get back,” he tells her. She lets go, lets him stand up.

“Be safe,” Laura says. “Bring me back a rose.”

“You always ask for a rose,” he laughs.

Laura smiles, wide as she can. Wider, still. “And you always bring me one,” she says. “Now go! Don't worry about me too much.”

“You know I will.”

Sherman gets on their horse. Leaves.

Looks back every chance he gets.

* * *

 

There is a story, and it doesn't just start bad. It _stays_ bad. Beasts, boys, and traveling fathers, oh my.

Laura's read a lot of books, more than most people in this town. More than _all_ people in this town. How many have _you_ read? There's a structure, to all of them.

First, the set up. (Inanna, Mircalla. A party. A storm. A knock on the door, a refusal of entry. A transformation. _Girl turned thing turned beast_.)

Next, the initial crisis. (That's Will, here, for who else could it be? There must always be a man around to ruin the day.)

So, what's next?

Another crisis, of course.

* * *

 

Sherman travels down the path, even as a storm rages overhead. (When's the last time a storm happened, in this town? Oh, you _know_ when. Turn back the clock. Think of Inanna, of her tale.

This town hasn't seen a storm since the beast arrived.) 

Rain thunders down, heavy on his shoulders. Heavy on Lophii’s shoulders. The lightning strikes down, right in front of him, of his horse. The tree splinters, crashes down and cuts off the rest of the path.

Sherman stares. Stares some more.

Keeps staring.

“Well, fuck,” he says. Sherman steps down from the horse, one foot at a time, and slowly, cautiously, approaches the tree.

There's no way over it, no way to continue on this path; that much is clear.

(What would you do, if this was you? Turn around, head home, or— when you turn to the right, and you see a new path, would you journey down that one instead?

Anyone sensible would leave.

Sherman Hollis has ever been sensible.)

He gets back on Lophii. Journeys forwards on this new path, this strange path. This _dangerous_ path.

Does not look back.

(He’ll regret that, later. Will hate himself for continuing, not because it got him captured, but because it got _Laura_ captured. His little girl, locked up in a cell.)

(He always has been a worrier.)

Dirt and gravel turns into snow, and he stares, _has_ to stare. There's no way there could be snow, not here, not at this time of the year, not in _June_ , and yet— there it is. Worse, there's _lots_ of it. It makes no sense.

But why would it?

There's a _beast_ at the end of this trail.

Sherman shrugs it off, for he has no choice _but_ to accept it. He doesn't know what's waiting for him, not yet. Doesn't know there's another explanation for the snow. Doesn't know about the _curse_.

He keeps going. Going.

Going.

(He doesn't get to go very far.)

The wolves come out of nowhere.

If there was only one, he might have been fine, but there's not. Two, three, four, five— the numbers go on. Sherman doesn't know if there's a way to get out of this alive, but he knows he has to. For Laura. Good god, for _Laura_.

There are so many moments he hasn't witnessed yet. Sherman was there for her first step, her first word, her first _I hate men_ . Her first, second, third, fourth, hundredth _I wish Will would just leave me alone_.

But what about everything else?

He wants to be there when she falls in love, when she gets married, when she has kids, or when she does none of those things. He wants to be there when she teaches another little girl to read, when she goes against everything people expect from women, when she changes the world. 

He wants to be there when she looks in the mirror, stares herself down, and says—

 _Lesbian_.

(Sherman won't say anything, of course. Not until she's ready for him to know. Not until she's ready to accept it.

He loves her.

No _anyways_ , no _regardless_. He loves her.)

Lophii gallops, as fast as she can. It's not fast enough. The wolves lunge, and she whinnies, rears up onto her back legs.

Sherman grabs on the reigns, tight as he can, and it's only thanks to luck that he doesn't fall off. He has never been taught to ride a horse, only barely knows the basics. There's no skill to depend on, here. Just luck. Just hope.

Just a desperate voice in his head telling him, begging him, to get home to his little girl.

(It sounds just like his wife.)

He rides on. Past the wolves. Past the gates that were left wide open. All the way up the front door.

The castle is unlike anything Sherman has ever seen before, that much is certain. He can't bring himself to call it _stunning_. It is, he knows — the castle is absolutely beautiful, absolutely breathtaking — but dread fills Sherman faster than he thought possible.

The castle looks like _death_.

He enters anyway.

(He tells himself it's for Laura, and maybe it is. Maybe it's a little bit for him, too. A dark scary castle in the middle of nowhere is the last place he’d ever want to be, and Sherman has never been all that good with facing his fears.

Maybe that should change.)

Sherman calls out, says _hello_ , says _is anyone here_? Nobody answers, but there's a tingle on his back, like a spider is crawling up his skin, like someone is _watching_ him. He discards his coat by the fire, and warms his hands for one, two, three seconds. Sherman looks around, tries to find a person, a shadow, _something_ that tells him he's not just being silly.

Instead, he sees a clock, and a candlestick holder.

The craftsmanship is superb, and Sherman can’t help but stop, can’t help but stare. Tinkering with things has always been something he's enjoyed doing, he had even made something of a career out of it, but seeing the care put into these pieces, the hard work put into making the details perfect— it leaves him absolutely breathless. For an entire second, a whole thousand milliseconds, Sherman can't think of anything more beautiful.

(Only for a second, of course. He need only think of his dear wife, his dear _daughter_ , to remind himself that there are many things in the world far more beautiful than these.)

He grabs the candlestick holder, already lit. He can hear something, and it sounds like voices, but when he calls out again — _can anyone hear me_? _is anyone here_? — the sound vanishes.

Sherman goes up the stairs.

The castle is old. He expects the steps to scream when he steps on them. They do not.

The house is silent. Silent.

Silent.

(Until it's not.)

There's a sudden burst of music, and it sounds— familiar. Like a song he listened to once in a dream. Like a memory he can’t quite recall.

Sherman follows the noise.

He pushes open a door, spots the piano. There is no one there. The room is empty. For another whole second, the piano keeps playing. Almost like it's playing itself. Almost like—

No. It’s late, he’s tired, and he just fought off wolves. Pianos cannot play themselves. He's just tired, just in need of some sleep. There is nothing weird going on, here. (The excuses, the denials— they come easily, once he's started. He's able to convince himself that he’s simply imagining things.

He is not.)

Sherman closes the door.

There has to be a bedroom, somewhere. He goes to the next door, and then next, and the next. It's a big castle. It shouldn't be this hard to find a bedroom.

He opens another door. It's not a bedroom, either, but instead a dining room. There is food, lots of it, laid out on the table. It's still warm. Still edible.

(There are three things that he should do. One: wonder who made the food if nobody lives here. Two: wonder  _why_ food was made if nobody lives here. Three: not eat the food.)

He eats the food. Even though he has no way of knowing what it is, or what's in it, or if it's poisoned, or if it's something he's allergic to—

He eats the food.

(Isn't he supposed to be a worrier? Or does that only ring true when it involves his daughter, when Laura is in her bed, crying, screaming, just wanting Will to _leave her alone_?

Sherman hates a lot of things. Will is one of them.)

The food is absolutely incredible. If it's poisoned, then what a way to go.

He picks up a small cup to take a sip, but then pauses, and puts it back down. Something seems— off, not quite right.

Then it starts to talk.

The _cup_ … starts to talk.

Sherman really shouldn't have eaten the food. There is no other explanation for this, except for it being a hallucination. He was poisoned. He’s going to die. Does he have brain damage? Maybe the wolves killed him, and this is heaven. Why would his heaven look like this? What if—

The cup is still talking.

It has a mouth. And it's speaking. In English. Wouldn't it have its own language, if it's not human? Like bats, or monkeys, or dolphins.

Sherman stares. Stares some more.

Keeps staring.

And then, loudly, as loud as he can without resorting to yelling, he says—

“What the fuck.”

The cup says something about _don’t say that_ and _bad language_ and _there are children present_ , and Sherman knows that's it. He's lost it. He's absolutely _lost_ it.

He stands up, very slowly.

And then runs, as fast as he can, out of the room. Down the stairs. Out the front door.

He remembers only barely to grab his jacket, and then he's gone, racing down the steps and to his horse. Sherman plans to head home, to forget this ever happened, but then he remembers—

Laura wants a rose.

There's a garden just off to the side. He remembers passing it when he came in, because the white roses stood out. Has he ever given Laura a white rose before? He doesn't think so.

Sherman enters the garden, and carefully plucks a single white rose from the bush.

He probably should have looked around first. Probably shouldn't have taken a rose at all, really. There's a loud, booming voice that comes out of nowhere, and it's calling him a _thief_. He turns around, and then looks up, up, up, until he can finally look into the eyes of the— _god_ , what is it?

(There is no girl, here. Only thing. Only _beast_.)

“What the _fuck_ ,” he says, again. “What the actual fuck.”

The blow to his head is expected, but not welcomed. Sherman crumbles to the ground.

Lophii runs away.

* * *

How would you feel, in Laura’s shoes? A dead mother, a missing father. A runaway horse.

Let me tell you a story about a girl who loses everything. A girl who isn't given the luxury of being devastated, of being upset. A girl who isn't allowed to mourn.

Let me tell you a story about a girl who gets on a horse, travels through a forest, and saves the day with nothing, no one, to help her.

Let me tell you a story about a _warrior_.

(What's left, at the bottom of Pandora’s box? What's always left, in corners and nooks and in all your favorite hiding places? What's left of _Laura_?

Hope.)

* * *

Laura knows something is wrong the second Lophii comes home limping, comes home lathered in sweat, comes home _scared_. Her dad is nowhere in sight. Nowhere in the village. Nowhere in the forest. Nowhere at all.

There is blood on Lophii’s legs.

She is suddenly very, very scared.

Laura pushes that aside. _Has_ to push that aside, if she wants to stay focused, and she has to stay focused if she wants to find her dad, and—

She grabs a bucket of soapy water, and slowly reaches towards her. She doesn't want to spook her, tries her best not to, but Lophii flinches away as soon as she gets close. Laura tries again, and again, and again. The result is always the same.

Laura glares. “Do you want me to leave the blood on you?”

Lophii neighs, and the sound vaguely resembles a no, so Laura tries again. Once more, she moves away as soon as she's close enough to wash away the blood.

“I suppose, then, that your neigh did not mean no, but instead ‘yes, Laura, I’d love it if you left me covered in blood’,” says Laura, and she's annoyed for the first time in a long time. She just wants to go find her dad, and make sure he's okay. Make sure he's alive.

She stands.

Lophii sticks her leg into the bucket.

Laura stares at the horse. Stares at the bucket. “Seriously?” she says. “All I had to do was stop trying? You should have said something. I'm very good at not trying. I’m very good at a lot of things. I’m great at being ga—”

Her horse _flips_. She rears her legs, tossing the bucket of water smoothly into the air. The bucket flips, once, twice, thrice and lands right on top of Laura’s head. The water left in the bucket drenches her. Laura splutters, but Lophii is not done. The legs still in the air lower, lower, lower, but as soon as they reach the ground, she falls. Laura waits a moment, to see if it’ll get up, but Lophii seems content to simply lay there.

“Well, you could have just said you're a homophobe,” Laura tells her, as if the horse can understand her, as if the horse can _reply_. “It would have been easier. Quicker. And I wouldn't be _covered_ in _water_.”

Laura dries herself off. Dries her horse off. Gets rid of the blood.

She knows what she has to do. Her dad is missing, and he's the only thing she has left. Laura needs to find him. She needs to make sure he's okay, make sure he's not ~~dead~~.

She gets on Lophii. Leaves.

Does not look back.

And why would she? There is nothing keeping her in this town. All she has is her father, and this horse. Loaned books, and a tiny house. Trinkets that are of no particular value. Laura knows she’ll give it all up in a heartbeat, for her father.

( _I want much more than this provincial life_ —)

If anything, Laura has only more and more reasons to leave. The locals look down on her, the women are shallow. The men are ugly, and Will is desperate for her hand in marriage.

There are barely any books.

(— _I want adventure in the great wide somewhere_.)

Lophii is fast, but Laura pushes her to go faster. There is a time limit, here. Who knows the condition her father is in. If he's bleeding out, if he's dying— she needs to find him, and she needs to find him _fast_. If her father dies, then she’ll be _alone_ , and—

Laura closes her eyes. No. That cannot, will not, happen. Laura _refuses_.

(The refusal of girls means very little, to the universe. But much like Mircalla, Laura is no longer a girl. The universe has commanded it.

Girl turned warrior. Girl turned savior.

Girl turned _god_.)

She rides into the forest. Down the very same path her father took. When they come across a fallen tree, one that obstructs her path, Laura worries that there's no way to get past it, no way to find her father. Lophii does not share her concerns. She veers to the right without even a second of hesitation, and journeys down a different path.

(Little Red Riding Hood, off to see her grandmother.)

Soon enough, there is snow.

Laura doesn't have a chance to ponder it, but later, when she's locked up in the castle, it will cross her mind many times. There is magic, here. Seeping from every nook and cranny, urging her forwards, closer to the castle, closer to the _beast_.

She doesn’t try to fight off the compulsion, doesn't know it's even there. (Even if she did, Laura isn't sure she’d try to turn away. With her father missing, Laura imagines that she wouldn’t have. _Couldn’t_ have. Because of this path, she saves her father. She meets Carmilla.

This path is her _destiny_.

Even gods, even warriors, even _girls_ cannot change their fate. And why would they? It's what makes them _great_. It's what gives them a _purpose_.)

(Laura’s purpose is _Carmilla_.)

She doesn’t turn around, doesn't even consider it. She rides on. Through the snow, down the path. There are no wolves, now. That's a blessing just as much as it is a curse. It means she won't be prepared, later. (It means she won't _die_ , now.)

Laura reaches the gates.

She pulls her horse to a stop, not because she's nervous, not because she's scared, but because she's _stunned_. Laura doesn't know what she was expecting, but it isn't _this_. The castle is dark, and gloomy, and _beautiful_. Laura's never seen anything quite like it before.

She pulls herself off of her horse, snow crunching like bones under her feet as she lands. To her left, there is something that looks like a garden, but all Laura can see is roses. _White_ roses. She wonders if her father saw them, wonders if he tried to take one. ~~She wonders if her father's still alive.~~

Laura walks forward, Lophii by her side, and makes her way to the front door. It's more intimidating than she thought it would be, up close, and Laura knows it has nothing to do with the door itself. She doesn't know what's inside, what she’s going to find. What she’s _not_ going to find. She has no clue what's waiting for her, and it’s _terrifying_.

She has no way of preparing if she doesn't know what’s going to happen.

Laura will just have to go in blind.

She opens the door, and the interior of the castle is just as stunning as the exterior. Laura closes her eyes. That's not why she's here. She's here for her _father_. Laura steps inside, heel first, then toes.

She closes the door behind her.

Lophii stays outside, ready to run whenever she returns. Whenever _someone_ returns. (It will not be Laura.)

The first thing that she notices is the staircase. It's huge, and veers off to the left and the right. Laura doesn't know where to go, which way to turn, so she can find her father. She pictures a coin in her mind, imagines it flipping. She races off to one side, and goes up, up, up.

There are a lot more stairs than she initially anticipated. She has to stop halfway through just to catch her breath, but then she hears something that sounds like a _scream_ and it has her bolting upwards.

Her father is here.

She would know his scream anywhere.

Laura nearly twists her ankle in her rush to find him, but she reaches the top of the stairs completely intact. She’s desperate to find him, and it shows. Her movements are frantic, rushed. Her eyes are wildly seeking out every nook, every cranny, to see if he might be there.

When she finally spots him, it takes every ounce of her strength to stay upright.

Her mouth goes dry. Her hands, suddenly clammy, start to shake.

“...Daddy?”

It's a soft, nearly inaudible sound, but it’s heavy with emotion. Fear, relief, and worry, all rolled into one word. (She sounds _broken_. This is not a happy thought.)

There is a long, terrifying moment of silence. Tears are in the corners of Laura’s eyes, welling up, threatening to spill over. She tries to blink them away, but this is her _dad_ , and she fails, keeps failing. He's the only thing she has. If he leaves her, if he _dies_ —

Laura thinks Will would be happy. She will no longer be able to say: _No_. Say: _I hate you_. Say: _Stay away from me_.

(Instead, she’ll have to say: _I do_.)

“Please—” and Laura has to stop, has to squeeze her eyes shut. Her nails dig into the sides of her thighs, hard enough to leave marks, not hard enough to draw blood. “ _Please_ ,” she echoes, louder, but her plea sounds feeble even to her own ears. “Anyone but you. Anyone but _my dad_. Please.”

She wants to go home. Wants to cry. Wants to rewind the clock, stop her father from leaving home in the first place. Stop them from moving to this town. (Stop her mother from dying).

Laura wants, wants, wants.

(But she _needs_ her father to be okay.)

The silence stretches out, and the tears are falling, are sliding down her cheeks and she just wants to _go home_ but—

“Laura?” he says, groggy, like he only just woke up. Her heart stops, dead in her chest. “Is that you, honey?” He rolls over to look at her, and Laura chokes back a sob. Her hands press to her mouth, trying to ensure her silence, but the noise escapes her anyway. Sherman looks tired, looks worn down, looks a little bit scared, but he's not in pain, not bleeding. Not on the brink of death.

(He's _alive_.)

“Hi, daddy,” she says, soft as she can. “I thought— I thought you were— nevermind. Are you okay? I heard you scream.”

He stares blankly at her for a moment, before realization dawns. It takes far longer than it should. “Ah, that. I was hoping someone would hear me. I didn't think it would be y—” he stops, frowns. “What are you _doing_ here? It could be back at any moment, you need to go, you need to _run_ —”

“What are you _talking_ about?” Laura is confused, of course she's confused. She does not run. “Dad, please, _please_ , why are you in a cage?”

“Because it put me in here,” Sherman says, tense, like he's waiting for something to jump out at them. Like he's waiting for something to _kill_ them. “Laura, honey, I love you, you know I love you, so please— go. I’m begging you, _go_.”

“I can free you,” she says, and searches for a key or a switch or something, _anything_ , that can open the door. She is a warrior, she is a girl, she is a _god_ , and he is her _father_. “I’m not leaving here without you. I can't.”

He goes to say something, but stops, stares at something behind her. Laura knows it must be frightening, whatever it is, for him to look that _scared_. “Honey,” he says, and his voice falters, stumbles, _shakes_ , but he still does not look at her, “don't move.”

For a second, just long enough to make her father think she’ll listen, Laura is still. Then she's whirling around, hair flying, and looking up, up, up until she can stare into the eyes of the beast. It looms over her, deadly and frightening. No girl. All beast.

“Wow,” says Laura, before she can stop herself, before she can _censor_ herself. “I mean… ew? That's an appropriate response, I think, more appropriate than _wow_ , not that the wow isn't still true because _wow_ .” She’s more in awe than she is scared, and that's bad, she _knows_ it's bad, but Laura can't help herself. “Gosh, you're… sure something. In a good way. I mean, were you human once? Or were you born like this? Scientists would have a _field day_ with you— not that you should ever go to them, of course, because they'd experiment on you and yuck, that's not going to be fun.”

“Laura,” Sherman says, warningly, like he’s scared she's about to be murdered in front of him, and he has a _point_ , he does, but Laura does not _care_.

Still, he is her father.

“Er— don't kill me?”

She half expects the beast to cut her head off, or toss her in the cell with her father, or at the very least do _something_ , but it just lets out a strange, wheezing noise instead. It takes a second for Laura to realize that it's supposed to be a _laugh_.

“Um,” she says, and considers what to say. “If you find me... funny, does that mean you might… let my father and I go?”

The amusement is gone, just that fast. The beast’s hands are up, twisting and turning and forming shapes. It takes Laura a second to realize that this is the beast’s way of _talking_. She tries to focus on them, tries to figure out what it’s trying to say, but they go by too fast. “Can you repeat that, a little slower?” she says, and the beast does. Laura tries her best to understand, but in the end she shrugs, has to shrug. It's clear that there’s a language within those twists, but Laura can't for the life of her figure it out. “I’m sorry, I don't know what you're trying to say.”

The beast rolls its eyes. It jabs a finger to her father, still in the cage, and shakes its head. The finger turns on her, and the beast nods in one, fluid motion.

“Oh, so, my dad has to stay, but I can go?” Laura guesses. The beast nods. “Can I— can we switch places?”

The beast considers it.

“No!” says Sherman. “ _No_. I will _not_ let you throw away your life like this, Laura. I’ll be _fine_ , okay? I’ll be fine. But you— you're my little girl. So, no, we can't, okay? We can't.”

There's a flurry of movements from the beast, and Laura glares. It rolls its eyes again, but starts pointing. First at Laura, then the cage, then her father, and then it twists its fingers to form— a thumbs up? Laura takes a second to puzzle it out.

“I can go in the cage, if… my dad agrees?” tries Laura. She knows that he won't, that he _can't_. He already lost his wife, her mom. He’ll never agree to lose her, too. Not willingly. Not ever.

The beast nods, the movement slow and fluid. Laura thinks it's enjoying this, and she can't fault it for that. She's stubborn, but Sherman is just as stubborn. An immovable object and an unstoppable force.

(What happens when they meet?)

“Well, I won't,” Sherman says, just to make sure they know. “I won't agree to that.”

Laura had gotten on a horse and raced forwards, into a forest, into a castle, ready to face monsters and beat gods. There is no way she will turn around now. Her mind is racing, trying to come up with an argument that might be able to convince him. “You know what’ll happen, if I leave. If you stay. I’m not going to be able to say _no_ , anymore. I’m going to have to marry him, I’m going to lose my free will, and— and— and I’m going to die.”

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I’m _sorry_ , I don't want that to happen, but Laura, _honey_ . You’ll die here too.” He's on his feet, clinging to the bars. They’re the only thing keeping them apart, and Laura hates them, wishes they would just disappear. “I’ve already lost one girl, Laura. I can't lose another. I _can't_.”

“But you _will_ ,” says Laura, and she's fighting back tears. “If you stay here, if I have to go back to Will— he doesn't _like_ me, dad, he’s _obsessed_ with me. It was just annoying at first, boys are _so annoying_ , but it's not like that anymore. I’m _scared_ of him. I should have told you before, I’m sorry that I didn't. I’m scared of him. And I know that I can't survive him. Not just because I’m gay, that's not it. I mean, it is, but not— that's not _just_ it. He’ll destroy me. Maybe I’ll die here, but that’s— that's not as bad as Will. Death is a kindness, in comparison. So— so _woman up_ , dad. Get out of the cell.”

She waits, as if she expects him to change his mind, magically open the door. He's just _staring_ at her, face completely blank, except for his eyes. His eyes look so _happy_.

It takes Laura a second to realize why.

(— _not just because I'm gay—_ )

“Oh,” Laura says, softly. “That's not how I wanted to tell you.”

Sherman looks behind her, stares down the beast. “Open the door,” he says, and it is not a request.

The door opens, of course it opens, and he's there, pulling her to his chest. “I love you. Do you hear me? I _love_ you. No anyways, or regardless, or—” Sherman shakes his head, and Laura feels it more than sees it. “I love you, honey. But I can’t walk away, knowing I’ve left my little girl to die.”

“That's not your choice to make, anymore,” she says, and whirls them around so her dad is closer to the beast and she's closer to the _cage_. Laura presses her hands to his shoulders, pushing him away, and in two swift motions she steps back into the cell. The door slams shut, and the sound echoes in her ears, in her dad’s ears.

“Laura—”

“I love you too,” she says. “There's a horse outside waiting for you. _Run_.”

Sherman faces the beast, all anger. All hate. (All _fear_.) “Let her out,” he demands. “I didn't agree. I _didn't agree_. Let her out.”

The beast does not move. “No,” it says, and it comes out like a _growl_. “Now _run_.”

“If you don't run, I’ll never forgive you,” Laura adds. Anything to stop him from picking a fight with a monster she's not sure he can beat. “I’ll be fine. _Go_.”

“I’ll come back,” he swears, and runs, stumbling over his feet. He doesn’t look away from her until she's completely gone from view, and even then it's hard to tear his eyes away from where he last saw her. The beast doesn't chase after him, too busy staring at Laura like she's some sort of miracle. (If the beast is human underneath all that fur, thinks Laura, then maybe the way to undo the curse is to kill a lesbian.

She can't think of any other reason for it to be staring at her like that, like she's everything it has ever wanted. Like she's the hope at the bottom of Pandora’s box.

Laura has never known just how impressive she is.)

“You can talk,” says Laura, because she _has_ to bring it up. She has to. “I thought the,” she waves her hands around, mimicking the shapes she remembers the beast using, “meant you couldn't.”

“Talking…” the beast makes a face. “Not good. Hands are… handy.”

“Can you teach me, then?” asks Laura. “I know I’m your prisoner, or— or something, I mean I _am_ here willingly, but… please? There’s obviously a language there, probably even some sort of alphabet, and I have a pretty good memory. It’d be super easy to teach me.”

The beast considers it. “Why?”

“Because you don't like to talk,” Laura says, as if it's that simple. As if anyone else would ever consider doing the same thing. “I don't know why — I don't know if it hurts, or if it takes a lot of energy, or if you just don't want to. It doesn't matter. But if learning your language makes things easier for you, then I want to learn it. I’m not a monster.”

“I am,” says the beast.

“Are you?” asks Laura. “You didn't hurt my dad. You haven't hurt me, even though I just keep rambling and rambling and rambling. I don't think you're as awful and mean and vicious as you seem to think you are.”

The beast scowls. It points at Laura, jabs a claw towards her, and says, “Know _nothing_.”

“Excuse you, I know _plenty_ of things,” counters Laura. “I know— I know how to _read_ , and—”

One second, the beast is there, glowering at her. In the next, it has completely vanished.

Laura sighs.

Her questions remain unanswered.

* * *

There are four stories to tell, here.

First, Laura’s. The beauty half of _beauty and the beast_ , but only if you ask Carmilla. She’s a warrior, a fighter. A god. The hope at the bottom of the box. Then, Carmilla’s. Girl turned thing turned beast. Equal parts beauty, equal parts beast. A self-declared monster, even though she's anything but. (Laura has already figured that out. Have you?)

The story wouldn't exist, without them.

But it also wouldn't exist without Sherman, or Will. One, all beauty. The other, all beast. (Funny how the appearances of men are so deceiving. Funny how the beast looks so _pretty_.)

This is a tale of girls and gods and monsters, none of them women. This is not a love story, it never has been. It’s a warning. A cautionary tale.

This is the story of what happens when a man looks at you, and thinks that you are his to take.

There is only one monster, here.

It is not Carmilla.

(Sherman will learn that, shortly.)

* * *

This time, there are no wolves.

It's a relief, even when Sherman wishes desperately that he was back in that cage. Laura is _everything_ to him. His entire life, every moment of every day— it's all been about keeping her safe.

And now she's in a cage, in a castle, on a path that didn't exist two days prior. All alone, with a beast.

Laura is many things — brave and bold and brilliant, and _so much better_ than him — but not even girls with steel in their bones and iron in their eyes can beat gods.

(Good god, she doesn't even have her _bear_ _spray_.)

Sherman doesn't want to go to Will. After everything Laura has said about him over the course of their stay here, after everything Laura has said about him _today_ —

He had hated Will, before. Now he wants to _kill_ him.

But — and here is the important part — there is a beast with his daughter, and Will is the only person Sherman knows that can help him get her back.

He doesn't have a _choice_. Not with this.

(Here is something that has never changed: Sherman will do everything he can to make sure Laura is safe. No matter the cost.

Here is something that has never changed: if it ends with her hating him, resenting him, but also with her still _alive_ , he will never regret it.

Here is something that has never changed: Sherman Hollis is a _man_. And all men are capable of being monsters.)

Sherman gets off his horse, and Lophii starts munching on the flowers by his feet. There is no hesitation out of her, no remorse. She just leans down, and begins to eat.

Any other day, he would have pulled Lophii away, told her not to eat them (as if that could stop her). But today is _not_ any other day.

Laura is missing, and these flowers? They’re not roses. Sherman can't bring himself to care.

(Lophii continues to eat.)

See, Sherman knows Will. Perhaps he doesn't want to, but he does. This means he _also_ knows what he needs to do, here. Stay calm, talk quietly. Make his point, stroke Will’s ego, convince him to help. It should be easy. It _has_ to be easy.

He has a _plan_ , after all.

It won’t be enough to just ask for his help, even if it's Laura’s life on the line. He spent the whole trip back into town thinking of what to say, how to say it. He has a _plan_.

First: the introduction. Sherman knows he can't just go right in and say that she's missing. He needs to be careful. Needs to be subtle. Needs to ensure that Will’s interest will be peaked. A simple “have you seen Laura?” might do.

(Will cares far, far too much about his daughter. It'd be upsetting if it wasn't so essential, now.)

Second: planting the seed. Once Will says no — because he hasn't seen Laura, of _course_ he hasn't, she's locked up in a castle with a _monster_ — he’ll need to poke and prod, play his role as worrisome father. (It’ll be a very, _very_ easy role to play.)

Third: the strike. After ensuring that Will is starting to grow concerned about Laura, Sherman will need to make the killing move. _I think she's been kidnapped_. By then, Will is going to have no choice but to offer his help.

It's a complicated process, Sherman knows. It could go wrong very easily.

But this is his daughter.

This is _Laura_. He doesn't have a choice, he never has. He never will. 

Sherman ties Lophii off to a post, and enters the bar.

For a second, he can't see Will, and worries that perhaps he isn’t here. Sherman never factored that, into his plans. But then there's a laugh, and a booming voice, and a glass slamming down onto the counter.

Of course Will is here. It was foolish of him to think otherwise. The man is less water, more alcohol; more proof that he's an awful fit for Laura. Lesbianism aside, he still never would have had a chance with her. Why Will thinks he does, he's not sure.

Sherman knows this is the part where he goes and talks to him, but Laura was so against it, so maybe this was a bad idea, maybe he should leave—

He doesn't get the chance.

Will spots him, and then he's grinning, mildly buzzed or at least not completely sober. “Sherman!” he says, and beckons him over. “Hello, my friend! How are you doing?”

“Er— not great,” he confesses, and walks over to him. “You haven't happened to see Laura, have you?”

“...No,” says Will, cautiously, at first. They've never really gotten along, the two of them. He can try his best to seem likable, can call Sherman his _friend_ , but nothing can stop the wave of disgust that hits him whenever he looks at Will.

There's a pause, and Sherman goes to say something else, to push his plan along. Will doesn't give him the chance. What was only caution a moment before has quickly become worry. “Is she okay? She isn't _missing_ , is she? Has Laura been kidnapped? When's the last time _you_ saw her? Oh, never mind. I’ll help you find her. Let's go.”

He's out the door before Sherman has a chance to process what he said.

“What the fuck,” says Sherman, more to himself than to Kirsch, who is still standing next to him, like a lost puppy.

“Are you coming, Mister Hollis?” prompts Kirsch. He looks tired, like even _he_ doesn't know why he hangs around Will. “We don't want him to get too far.”

Sherman sighs. Leaves.

Does not look back.

This is a bad idea, he knows. A very, very bad idea. But Laura is _human_ , and humans are _fragile_.

He will do whatever he can to get her back.

(But of all the options at his disposal, of all the things he could've done to save her—

This one is the worst.)

* * *

At the end of the day, Sherman isn't wrong. Laura _is_ human. 

Girl turned warrior, girl turned savior, girl turned god. Still human. Her blood flows through her veins, her heart beats in her chest; all human, no beast. (Just a little girl—

—if girls were little, and not deadly, not frightening, not with morals tougher than diamond. If girls were not another kind of beast entirely. If girls did not have ichor in their bones and stars in their smiles.)

She is human.

Laura sits down on the cell’s bed, and does not make a noise. Doesn't even dare. She isn't afraid of the beast, not like she should be, but the beast is still unpredictable, still a wild card. Laura doesn't know a thing about it.

She does not want to get on it’s bad side. Not when it spared her father, not when it hasn't hurt her. Laura is smarter than that.

The first rule of the game is to never make the starting move.

The beast can decide the rules, here. Laura knows there will always be a loophole, something she can exploit, something she can use against it.

She is patient. She knows the beast will slip up, eventually. And when it does—

The king will fall.

 _Checkmate_. 

This is what they do not account for, when they think of humans, of little girls in fluffy dresses: they will do whatever it takes to survive.

* * *

Laura is in the cell up until the moment where she isn't. The doors grind open, screeching as they’re pulled across the floor. Laura stands, of course she stands. She expects to see the beast, expects for the game to begin. Her assumption isn't _completely_ wrong.

The game _has_ begun.

But it isn't the beast who starts it. It's the furniture.

“We really shouldn't be doing this,” says the clock, shooting the candlestick holder a glance that would've read as nervous, had they been human. “The Beast will _not_ be pleased to know that she's no longer in her cage, LaFontaine.”

“Beast smeast,” says the candlestick holder. “The bed in here is _killer_ for your back.”

“Hi,” says Laura, politely, as if she doesn't want to race past them, down the stairs, out the doors. As if she doesn't want to _escape_. “I hate to be a bother, but— do you happen to know that you're talking? It's just, well, you're kind of furniture, and I’ve never _met_ talking furniture before. Is this a… recent development, by any chance? Your English is quite good, if it is. Has the beast been teaching you?”

“No, no,” says the clock. “We’re uh… special.”

The candlestick holder nods, because candlestick holders can _nod_ in this castle. “We weren't always like this. We were h—”

“Laf!” shouts the clock. It's a warning, Laura knows. The candlestick was going to reveal something that wasn't supposed to get revealed.

“She's going to find out eventually,” the candlestick holder points out, but does not continue. “Hi, by the way. I’m LaFontaine. Call me Laf the Lit.”

The clock stares. Clearly this isn't a suggestion they’ve made before. “Or just _Laf_.”

“The buzzkill is Perry,” adds Laf… the Lit.

Laura considers them for a moment, eyes sharp, mind sharper. “You were human once, right? That's what you were going to say. You weren't always objects. That's why you have human names, and you can talk. Right? And if _you_ were once human, then that means the beast was, too. Do they have a name? I mean, of course they have a name, but… can you tell me it? It's kinda awkward, always calling them the beast.”

“I _like_ you,” says Laf. They say it like they’re surprised, like they’ve never liked someone before. Maybe they haven't. “Her name is—”

“I don't really think she would want us to say,” Perry points out.

Laf ignores her. “Her name is Mircalla,” they tell Laura. “Mircalla Karnstein.”

Perry sighs, because apparently clocks can _sigh_ now. “She comes across as a bit rude, but she's very lonely. There haven't been people here in _ages_.” 

“It's very boring,” agrees Laf. “Maybe you can help with that. Liven this place up, or— make it super gay. I don't know. We’d all appreciate that, though. The castle for queers. Queer castle. Hmm… we should do something with that.”

Laura is a lot of things. Beast comforter is not one of them. But maybe, if it’ll help her get out of this alive— maybe she can make herself one. “Why are you two here, exactly? You said something about the bed.”

“It's awful, isn't it?” asks Laf. “Worst bed in the castle. So we’re going to go take you to a bedroom, where you won't want to chop your head off just to get your back to stop hurting.”

“Has someone… done that?” asks Laura. It's oddly specific, after all.

Laf winks.

“Let’s go, my dude,” they say. “You're too pretty to lose your head like Anne Boleyn.” Laura _knows_ that name, has _always_ known that name. Anne Boleyn, queen of England. Anne Boleyn, who ruled with her heart, made decisions with her heart— and lost her head, because of it. Anne Boleyn, who had a daughter named Elizabeth, a daughter who vowed to never marry a man. A daughter who married her _country_ , instead.

 

Laura thinks she'd like to do that, one day. (If it’s between a man and her country, Laura will always, _always_ pick her country.)

Laura follows them out of the cage. She doesn't have a choice, here. Doesn't think she'd have said no if she did, anyway. A comfortable bed sounds lovely. (And if there's a window, then she can escape. Little girls are _very_ resilient.

Perry was right to try to stop Laf.)

They twist and turn, go up and down staircases and along hallways. Laura commits the route to memory, but can't stop herself from looking around in awe. It's dark, and dreary, and maybe a little scary, but she loves it, still loves it. Wishes with everything she has there wasn't a beast within the halls, so she could truly enjoy it.

“It's very pretty,” she compliments, for she feel like she must. If she has a friend, then she has someone who’ll be willing to try to stop the beast — _Mircalla_ — from killing her. Laura knows how to play this game. “This whole castle is stunning.”

“Not like it used to be, though,” says Perry,  contemplative. “It used to be so light, and beautiful, before. Maybe it’ll be like that again, one day.”

“If you help break the curse,” adds Laf.

“The curse,” echoes Laura. When the beast found out she was gay, she looked so… pleased. And now Laura knows the beast is a girl. _Was_ a girl.

A curse. A girl. A lesbian.

Two lesbians?

“Laf!” shouts Perry, the clock, the clock-human, the— the _whatever_ she is. “You can't just— these things are _secrets_ for a _reason_. Mircalla won't want her to know!”

“So?” asks Laf. “Mircalla doesn't _own_ me, Perry. Just because we’re furniture now—”

Laura wonders what this fight would be like, if they were still human. She wonders how this fight would _end_. (Probably with them in a bed together, less arguing, more kissing.) Laura hopes that one day, she can have that with someone. Preferably without having been turned into a clock or a candlestick holder first. That bit doesn't sound very fun.

“Well, it was obvious there was some sort of curse, wasn't there?” Laura points out. “You're _furniture_. Mircalla’s a _beast_. It’s sort of a given.”

“See!” Laf says, pointedly looking towards Perry. “The curse is a _given_ , Perry.”

“Yes, but you don't need to _tell her_ what the curse _is_ ,” Perry argues.

“I didn't tell her, though,” Laf retorts.

“Yeah, but you were _going_ to.”

They reach her new room, and Laura is relieved if only because it means they’ll stop arguing. It'd be cute, if they were human, but they're _not_ human.

“Here we are,” says Perry. “You’ll have to open the door yourself.”

“We’re too short,” Laf adds, helpfully.

Laura opens the door. She isn't sure what she expects to see. Something like the cell, but with a slightly better bed. Something she’ll _hate_. A dark, miserable thing of a room.

Instead it's bright, and shimmering, and golden; far prettier than Laura’s room back home. She could spend the rest of her life in this room, and she wouldn't even mind. Not that Laura wants to do that, of course. She’ll still be escaping first chance she gets.

“Do you like it?” asks Perry.

“Of course she does,” replies Laf. “It's gorgeous. And look at that _bed_. God, I wish I was human again. That would be so comfortable.”

“I wasn’t asking _you_.”

“I like it,” Laura chimes in, before they can start fighting again. “It's… not what I expected, but I like it.”

“What did you expect? Another cell?” Perry inquires. “We’re not monsters, you know.”

“Just furniture,” Laf agrees.

“I don't know what I expected,” Laura says. She isn't sure if it's the truth or not. “Just… not this. This room is— it's for someone rich, someone important. Someone… not me.”

Laura walks further into the room, and spins, shoes scraping the floor as she looks around. It's so big, and beautiful, and _god_. Only hours ago, Laura expected to die. And now—

It just doesn't seem _real_.

“Are you the only things that can talk?” asks Laura. “I mean, things like this wardrobe, or—”

“Most furniture can talk,” Perry tells her. “Not beds. But the wardrobe can. The seat there, that's a dog, or it used to be. We were all people, once.”

“Maybe one day we can be again,” adds Laf, pointedly. They ignore the look Perry shoots them. “The curse can be broken. By you.”

“Me,” echoes Laura. “The curse — _curse_ , meaning by a witch, or a sorcerer, or a _god_ — can be broken by a teenage lesbian? _Seriously_? That's the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard. I’m— I’m a _girl_. That's all. I’m not some magical curse breaker.”

Except that isn’t true, is it? Girl turned warrior. Girl turned savior. Girl turned god. Natural progression of time.

Laura isn't sure why she's so surprised.

“The curse can be broken by me,” she says, again, slower this time, more contemplative. The words feel _right_ , like these words are _meant_ for her. Like this is her _destiny_.

Laura’s always felt like there was a _purpose_ for her existence. Maybe she was just being self-centered, but while she had many doubts about many things, Laura never once doubted that she deserved to be here. It was like she already knew that she did, like she had seen this exact moment coming even when she was just a child.

Like this was all prophesied, back when gods were less figments of your imagination, more your next door neighbor.

Laura was always supposed to be here, in this castle, with this curse.

“The curse can be broken by me,” Laura repeats, this time with confidence. She knows it's true. “I’m the curse breaker. The savior.”

“Thank god for lesbianism,” Laf says.

“The thing is,” adds Perry, “we have been here for a very, very long time. Mircalla— she's lost hope. She felt it for a second, when you said you were gay, but— she doesn't believe you can break the curse. It’ll be hard to convince her otherwise.”

Oh, thinks Laura. _Oh_. She has been forgetting a very crucial detail. “About that,” she says. “How exactly do I break the curse? You haven't told me.”

The silence stretches on for one, two, three seconds, and then even longer, until it's almost suffocating. Laf and Perry stare at each other, both of them hesitant, not sure if they should tell her. “She needs to know,” Laf points out, eventually.

Perry sighs, but doesn't argue. Laura realizes then that this must be very, very important. She hasn't been willing to share any information before, has been fighting Laf every step of the way. For her to stop, for her to let Laf explain—

Laura knows that this conversation, whatever Laf says next… it's going to determine _everything_.  

“I don't want to scare you away,” Laf starts, and then stops again. “Although, in retrospect, starting off with that probably wasn't the best idea, if I was trying not to scare you.” Laf shrugs, like they don't really care. Laura can see their point— if beasts and talking furniture hasn't scared her off, it's not likely that _this_ could. “Don’t get freaked out, but uh… it's love. You break the curse with love.”

“Like… platonic love?” guesses Laura. “Or, you know. _Love_.” If it's the former, Laura knows she’ll have no problem breaking the curse. Laura has always had a very, very big heart (unless _boys_ were involved, of course. Laura has never been very good at understanding, trusting, or even caring about boys. Her father is the exception, not the rule. _Will_ is the rule). But if it's love, as in hand holding and kisses and _love_ , Laura doesn't know if she can do it.

~~She's never been one for bestiality.~~

It's such a shame the curse took away Mircalla’s human form. Laura’s sure she must have been stunning. (One day, she will be again.

Laura will make sure of that.)

“Inanna is far too cruel to let platonic love work,” Laf clarifies. “For the curse to break, someone has to fall in love with Mircalla, before the last petal falls.”

“Someone, as in _me_ ,” says Laura. She sighs, long and hard. This is less like Little Red Riding Hood, more like Sleeping Beauty. Laura doesn't get to fight wolves, or save ~~fathers~~ grandmas. She gets to break the curse. She gets to fix the girl.

(There should be a fairytale for this.

Laura almost feels like there is, there's a name on the tip of her tongue, scalding her mouth, but she can't say it, she can't say it, she can't—)

“Someone as in you, yes,” Laf nods. They look apologetic, but only for a second. “Nobody else has been here, not since the curse was cast,” they add, as if to explain, as if there could ever be an _explanation_ for this. “Not until your father. Not until _you_. And then you were gay, and you took your father’s place, and— and I don't know. It feels a little bit like fate, doesn't it? You were meant to be here. You were _always_ meant to be here.”

“I know,” Laura says, and it's the truth. “This is what I was meant to do. I know that, I can _feel_ that. It's just— this all seems so _impossible_. Yesterday, I was reading a book about a girl and her Prince Charming, I was fighting off Will, I was _normal_. Today, I’m talking to _furniture_. I mean, how crazy is this? You're a _candlestick holder_. Perry is a _clock_. It's cool, don't get me wrong, but it's also absolutely _ridiculous_. I half expect to wake up from a dream at any moment.”

“We’re very much real, if that helps,” Laf tells her. “Although, who knows? Maybe we’re not. Maybe we’re a figment of your imagination. Maybe you're a figment of _our_ imagination. It's all very Alice in Wonderland, isn't it?”

“Does that make you the Mad Hatter?” asks Laura, grinning so hard her face threatens to split in two. It's very, very easy to like Laf, to grow comfortable around them. To let her guard down. Laura knows that she can't, that she has to fight her feelings, that she needs to be thinking of an escape route, but Laf is the type of person that Laura would have loved to hang out with.

“What would that make me?” Perry asks, because Perry is still there. Laura had nearly forgotten. Her presence is a sudden, startling reminder that this isn't a vacation. These aren't her friends. This may be a castle, but it's her prison, and they're her watch dogs.

She looks away. “Anyway, uh, thanks for this,” Laura says. Was it really their idea, or had Mircalla suggested it? Perhaps this is simply an attempt to lower her guard, to make her relax. To make her _stay_. “A bed will be nice. Just, ah. If you get in trouble for this? Blame me. Say I yelled or screamed or— or— I don't know. Whatever. Just, it's okay to blame me. I don't want Mircalla mad at you.” Not that she’ll be mad at all, if this is all orchestrated, if this is her idea.

“But you want her mad at _you_?” Perry asks. “I know you don't know Mircalla, but she's not— well. She's not mean, but she can be _cruel_ , sometimes. If she's unhappy. And she might be unhappy about this.”

“Not,” Laf adds, “that you should let that stop you from breaking the curse. She's just been through a lot, is all. She's not cruel,” they glare at Perry, “just old, and tired, and sad.”

“I can take whatever she throws at me,” Laura says to Perry. She turns to Laf. “Beneath all the,” she mimics Mircalla’s growl, although it's a weak imitation, and they all know it, “I reckon she's actually quite nice. She's just lonely, like you said. I think— no, I _know_ I can help with that. Anyway, you can— would you mind going, now? It's just, it's been a rather long day. I’d like to sleep for a bit.”

“Okay,” Laf says. They look worried, or they would, if candlestick holders could look worried. “Don't die while we’re gone,” Laf suggests, helpfully.

“Or leave your room, or try to escape, or go to the east wing, or—” Perry tacks on, and then winces.

“Ignore that last one,” says Laf, noticing the mistake immediately. “There's no east wing, here. Just the west wing. Don't go looking for the east wing, because it doesn't exist.”

Perry nods. “I don't know _why_ you’d go looking for the east wing, of course, because you're not supposed to leave your room, but definitely don't, because like Laf said, it doesn't exist.”

“Er— thanks for the advice?” says Laura. Laf’s been extremely forthcoming with their information up until that moment. Up until the east wing, whatever _that_ is. There has to be a _reason_ for that to change, and Laura — warrior, savior, _curse breaker_ — Hollis wants to know what it is. Perhaps she should go looking for the east wing, see what she can find.

“Bye, Boleyn,” Laf says, and then they're both gone.

Laura lays down on her bed — no, _the_ bed, it's not hers, it's never going to be hers — and sighs, loudly, as loud as she can. (It's not very loud.)

There's a lump in her throat, making it hard to swallow, and she chokes it down, _has_ to choke it down. If this is all a ruse, if this is just part of the game— god, Laura doesn't know what she’ll do. Laf is nice, and kind, and funny, and Laura _likes_ them. She hasn't liked very many people before. The town is full of snobs, and all they do is sneer, sneer, sneer. Laf isn't like that. Laura wants, _desperately_ , to be their friend, but if it's all fake—

She thinks, maybe, the Boleyn comment is proof that it is.

Laura doesn't want to be a Boleyn. She doesn't want to fall in love with a boy, doesn't want to live her life only with her heart. She doesn't want to _die_.

(— _I want adventure in the great wide somewhere, I want it more than I can tell_ —)

No, Laura wants to be Elizabeth, her daughter, or something else entirely; something out of a fairytale, something out of one of the books she's read. All those stories, all those adventures— Laura wants to be something brave and daring and strong; something that can stand up, _really_ stand up, to men like Will. She wants to be something _more_ than what she is, something that isn't powerless, isn't helpless. She wants to be a _god_.

But she's just a girl.

(Not that there is anything _just_ about a girl. There's iron, stardust, _magic_ in their bones, in their veins, in their _soul_. Anne Boleyn may have died, but she was still a ruler, still a _queen_. Headless or heartless, women will persevere. _Laura_ will persevere.

Men are nothing, in comparison.

 _Will_ is nothing.)

Perhaps Laf was right, to call her Boleyn. Perhaps they were just being _honest_ . She's here to break a curse with nothing but her heart, with nothing but her _love_. Anne Boleyn, girl turned queen turned Laura.

But only if she sticks around long enough to break the curse. There is a _window_ in this room, after all.

It would be very, very easy to leave. Girls are brave, determined, strong. Girls are _gods_. And Laura is nothing if not a girl.

But if it's not all just a ploy? If this room, and this bed, and Laf’s jokes and smiles and secrets were all in earnest, then she will be abandoning Laf, and Perry, and everyone else trapped as furniture. She will be abandoning _Mircalla_.

Laura doesn't know if she wants to do that. Not yet. Not before she’s _sure_.

What's a day, in the grand scheme of things?

She owes them that.

(It's a _very_ comfortable bed. It would be a shame not to sleep in it.)

* * *

Laura falls asleep quickly.

There are a lot of metaphors, for this. _Too_ many. It’s as quick as dying. As quick as falling in love.

Laura prefers _as quick as falling asleep_. Pretty metaphors are pretty, but at the end of the day, she is asleep, and they do not matter.

Her father would like the metaphors, she knows. He likes things like that. But he's not there. (Of course, if Laura knew where he was, what he was doing— she wouldn't be able to sleep.

It's a good thing she doesn't.)

Laura knows, of course, that her father won’t be able to let this go. She knows that. She’s accepted that. So Laura can forgive him for going on the warpath. But for him to go to _Will_ , to ask _Will_ for help— it's a very good thing that she doesn't know about that.

So she sleeps.

And her father, with Will and Kirsch by his side, start to gather an army. A man, a boy, a monster.

It's a very interesting trio.

It's a very _awful_ trio.

* * *

Laura wakes up in time for dinner.

She thinks that perhaps her priorities are a bit out of whack, but when her door opens and Laf the candlestick holder waddles in, talking about food—

She's not about to turn that down 

Laura walks over to the wardrobe, and she's not sure what she believes anymore, not with curses and beasts and talking furniture in her life, but she's praying to _something_ that there's at least one nice thing inside. She's gotten the impression that this castle is older than it looks, which means that the fashion is… well. It's going to be different.

“Hello, Laura. I’m Betty,” says the wardrobe, once she gets close. “Your outfit— oooh, this is bad. We’re gonna have fun fixing that. Well, I am. You— maybe not.”

Laura looks down at her outfit. It isn't _that_ bad, surely. “We’re from different—” Laura pauses. Just how much older is Mircalla? Ten years, fifty years? A _hundred_ years? “Times. We’re from different times, so this is considered cute, now. Not so much, when you were human. But it is now.”

“You want to impress Mircalla, don't you?” asks Betty. “We’re gonna get you in something cute. _Actually_ cute, not… that.”

Laura wants to refuse. Wants to say: _that's a nice offer, but no thanks_. Instead, she says, “I’m Laura, by the way. Please don't make me look bad.”

The wardrobe smiles. It's the creepiest thing Laura has ever seen a piece of furniture do. “Let's do it.”

What happens next— Laura will never be able to fully recall. It’s a flurry of movement and fabric, and it’s something _magical_. Truly, undeniably magical. That doesn't make the end product any less horrifying.

Laura stares at her reflection for a very long moment. The dress itself is quite pretty, she can't refute that. It's the _colors_ that make it a monstrosity. Bright pinks and purples, dark greens and blues. Earthy browns. There's just too much going on.

“I thought you said you were going to make me _cute_ ,” she says, eventually.

Betty thinks about it. “You're… hmm, you're a sixty two. Which is pretty cute. It’s like a gentlewoman’s C.”

“I was like, an eighty four before,” Laura points out, which is an awfully generous number for someone who just raced through the forest, was held hostage in a cell, and had spent the last few hours asleep. “That’s a _high B_. Sixty four isn't even a C+.”

“Fine,” says Betty, and then it’s the same experience as before, only worse, because Betty isn't just grabbing random colors anymore. “There you go.”

Laura is— hesitant, to say the least, when she approaches the mirror. She shouldn't have been. This dress is, god, it's something out of the romance novels she always reads. It looks like something a princess would wear.

(It will have to settle for a god.)

“That's an eighty four, right?” asks Betty the wardrobe.

“An _eighty f_ — no, definitely not,” Laura shakes her head, but doesn't take her eyes away from the mirror, away from the dress. It's similar to the dresses the other girls in the city always wear in it the format, the layout. The designs are _identical_ . But the colors— the _colors_ are what make it stand out. Whereas the previous dress was a clashing catastrophe, styled with every color on the rainbow and then a few that weren't, _this_ dress is a lot more toned down. It's a soft pink, dark enough that it can't be mistaken for red but light enough that the word _purple_ is never even considered to describe it. And it has _pockets_. “It's a ninety. No, a ninety nine. God, it's a hundred. This is— wow. I don’t like dresses very much, I’ve always preferred trousers, but this is _incredible_.”

“Good,” says Betty. “Now go eat dinner.”

It's really not the sort of dress one should eat in.

(As if that could ever stop Laura.)

She leaves her room — _the_ room — and Laf is outside the door, waiting for her. “Looking good, Boleyn,” they say, when they notice the dress. “Didn't know Betty had something like that left in her.  
“I didn't either,” she says, which is true, considering the first dress. Now that she isn't tired from her trek through the forest or stressing about her father, the castle seems— different, somehow. Before, it was pretty, but dark and dreary as well. Now, some of the darkness, some of that dreariness— it's gone.

It could just be the lighting.

(Or it could be because she stayed.)

“Did you have a good sleep?” asks Laura, an attempt to continue the conversation. She realizes a second too late that it's a very, _very_ bad attempt. “Except. You weren’t sleeping. Because it's still the same day. I just took a nap. That was a really dumb question. Also, can you even sleep? I know you were a person once, but you're a candlestick holder now, so.”

“Yes, I can fall asleep,” says Laf, as they reach a large door. “Mircalla is already inside, waiting. Are you ready to fall in love, Boleyn?”

 _No_ , thinks Laura.

 _There is no way this will be anything but a tragedy_ , thinks Laura.

 _I don't want to die in four days like they do in Romeo and Juliet_ , thinks Laura.

“I guess,” says Laura, and she enters.

The dining hall is just as shimmering, just as glimmering as the rest of the castle, and Laura takes a moment to appreciate it. Her eyes inevitably fall to Mircalla. The lightning in here is a lot better than it was by the cell, and to look, _really_ look, at the beast is both a frightful and a delightful experience for her.

“Hi,” says Laura.

Mircalla is silent, just watching her. Waiting for something, some kind of reaction, some kind of response. Fear, maybe? Laura isn't sure, but whatever it is, it doesn't come. (She knows how to play this game.)

“Hi,” repeats Laura, louder this time. “Your name is Mircalla, right? Hi, Mircalla.”

That gets a reaction out of her, and Laura forces down the smile that's threatening to blossom. Mircalla stands, all rage, all _hate_. The action nearly spills her food across the table, down onto the floor. The plate merely shakes, instead. “Don't— _don't_ call me that. My name is _not_ Mircalla. It hasn't been for a very, _very_ long time. I don't know who gave you that name, but—”

Laura sits down across from her.

“I thought talking was hard,” she says, with the carelessness of something invincible. “It doesn't look very hard when you're angry. Is it an emotion thing?”

“Do you like fairytales?” counters not-Mircalla. Laura nods, but the yes was obvious without it; her face lit up the moment the word _fairytale_ was said. “Let me tell you a story about a beast, a castle, and the annoying little girl that got eaten alive.”

Laura smiles, wide as she can. All teeth. She knows how she is supposed to react, to these words. How the beast expects her to react, how her father _would_ react. He’d be terrified, perhaps even terrified enough to get up and _run_. But Laura is not her father, and so she bares her teeth and _grins_. “It will be rather difficult to fall in love with you if I’m dead,” she says, and not-Mircalla rears back, because she isn't supposed to _know_ this.

“And why, _pray tell_ , would I want you to fall in love with me?” she asks, an underlying hint of something _furious_ in her voice. Something less human, less girl, and more beast; something primal, something instinctive— something _terrifying_.

“Because of the curse,” Laura says, not at all afraid. She's gone toe to toe with Will and did not back down— a beast is nothing to a man like that. “If I fall in love with you, you become human again. I think it's worth a try, don't you?”

“The curse cannot be broken,” not-Mircalla says, and it's clear that she believes it. “Certainly not by _you_.”

Laura frowns, because she has _heard_ those words before. She knows what that could mean, what that _would_ mean if Laura was anyone else, if the _beast_ was anyone else. She would say _certainly not by you_ , and it would mean _certainly not by another girl._

This is not what the beast means.

Because this is not an insult to her sexuality, a dig at who she likes. It's an observation, and it's one that Laura has already made. Certainly not by her, as in a _prairie_ girl, a _poor_ girl. Her, as in the sort of girl that doesn't _belong_ in a castle like this. Laura knows this, already. Has known it since the second she saw the castle. But she's still there, inside, sleeping in its bedrooms, eating at its table.

(— _I want much more than this provincial life_ —)

She ignores the snub, disregards it entirely. “Are you going to answer my questions?” Laura asks, and fills her plate with food. It all looks rather good, and she's quite hungry. Given enough time, Laura is sure she could eat everything on the table. “What do I call you, if not Mirc— the name I was given? And why is talking no longer difficult? You never answered either question, earlier.”

Not-Mircalla shrugs. “Talking was never difficult,” she confesses, and it's a lie, Laura _knows_ it's a lie. “I just wanted to see what you would do.”

“But that _was_ a language, right?” she asks, playing along, pretending she hasn't seen the lie. “In the twists?” It has to be, Laura knows. It was too consistent not to mean something.

“It's sign language,” confirms not-Mircalla, and _this_ , this is the truth. “And you can call me— well, anything but Mircalla, I think. You come up with something. I’m sure your decision will be _so_ _wonderful_ that I’ll take it on as my actual name.”

(The beast knows how to play this game, too.)

Laura stares. “You want me to _name_ you.”

There is something scarily intimate, about being able to do that. Being able to _name_ someone. That’s an honor that only parents, only guardians, only _adults_ should bestow, or at least someone you know, someone close to you. The beast doesn't know anything about her, not really, and yet she still chose _Laura_ to give her a new name.

It's frightening, having someone trust her that much. (If this is even trust at all— the beast is cynical, has done nothing to hide that.

Perhaps this is just a test.)

Not-Mircalla — Agnes? Bernice? She can't think of a single name that fits her — stares her down for one long, tense moment. “Yes,” she says, finally, like Laura is ridiculous for asking. Not-Mircalla pauses, and then reaches across the table, holds something out to her. “Cupcake?”

Laura gets the hint.

She eats.

The food tastes as good as it looks, and it's not long before her plate is once again empty. ( _Course by course, one by one, till you shout “enough, I’m done”—_ )

Laura isn't sure if she can leave, so she simply sits there in silence, and observes the beast. She has very pretty eyes. The curse hasn't changed that. The rest of her isn't half as pretty — her skin is fur, her nails are claws, her teeth are sharp and curve out of her mouth — but her eyes are _stunning_. (They're also very, very sad.

Not-Mircalla has been alone for an extraordinarily long time.)

The silence quickly becomes too much for Laura to tolerate. “You lied to me,” she says, softly, soft enough that it's less of an accusation and more of an observation, more of a query. “You didn't just want to see what I would do. Talking is hard, hands are handy— that's what you told me. It's true, isn't it? Talking is _hard_.”

Not-Mircalla looks at her, silent.

Laura takes it as permission to continue. “Is it always painful? Is it based on your mood, or how— how _beastly_ you are? If you get angry, like you did with your name, is talking harder or easier? And— will you teach me sign language? You never answered before.”

“Yes, yes, yes, harder, no,” lists off Not-Mircalla.

It takes a second to put the answers to the question. Yes it's painful, yes it's based on her mood, yes it changes on how humane or how beastly she is, it’s harder when she's angry, and— oh. No, to sign language.

Laura frowns, deeper than last time, because she isn't being snubbed, here. She's being _rejected_ . “You're not going to let me go anytime soon,” says Laura, and she sounds confused, sounds _baffled_. Like she doesn't understand why the beast would ever say no. “You're stuck with me, will be for awhile, and talking is difficult for you. Why wouldn't you want to make it easier for you? It wouldn't be _right_ , me making you talk out loud all the time when I _know_ that it hurts—”

“You have a point, cupcake,” says the beast, and she doesn't seem very happy about it. Laura isn't very happy about her new nickname, so it's only fair. “Perhaps, then.”

Laura waits a second longer, and then she _has_ to ask, she has to. “If it hurts as much as I assume it does, then why did you let yourself get so mad, earlier? When I said your name? You yelled and screamed and— and I don't understand. It must have hurt, a _lot_.”

“You pissed me off enough that I didn't care,” not-Mircalla informs her, sounding pleased. It's a good look on her, beast form and all. Laura tries to think of a name, but nothing sounds _right_. Eleanor. Florence. Gertrude. “Do you always talk this much?”

This, Laura knows, is code for _shut up._  

But if that's what she wants from Laura, then she will have to _ask_ for it.

“Depends on who you ask,” she says. “My father will say yes, I do. Will— well, he'd say very much the opposite.”

“Will,” echoes not-Mircalla, and her voice is curious, intrigued. Maybe the name Nancy or Edna would fit her— or maybe not. “The boy you told your father you were scared of.”

“Yes,” says Laura. She can't refute that, not when the beast had been there as she said it. Not when the beast had been _watching_ . “He is— a beast, too, but not like you. He's a lot scarier. A lot deadlier. And nobody cares, because he is a man, as if _man_ is not a synonym for _monster_. I hate Will, with everything I have, with everything I _don't_. I’m sure you've met men like that, in your time.”

“I have,” she agrees, slowly, carefully, as if waiting for the other shoe to drop. “I—” not-Mircalla pauses, struggles for words to explain herself. Laura has already used them all. “I have,” she repeats, finally. Nothing more needs to be said.

“Of course you have,” says Laura, easily, and suddenly this isn't just a game anymore, another move on the board. Nobody has ever understood her, _really_ understood her, before. “Most have, I’m sure. Very few actually admit to it.”

The beast nods, and Laura thinks that perhaps nobody has ever understood _her_ before either. “Tomorrow,” says not-Mircalla. Henrietta? Genevieve? “Tomorrow, I’ll teach you sign language.”

Laura beams, and it's brighter than the sun.

* * *

Laura knows, going into this, that it is going to be difficult. She knows that as soon as she sees her father, as soon as she knows they can switch places. 

Here's the thing: Laura had considered all the options, all the possibilities. She contemplated whether or not the Beast was kind, beneath the teeth, beneath the claws; had even _believed_ it. But it was still supposed to be a _game_. (One of them a cat, the other a mouse—

Laura isn't sure yet which role is hers.)

Here's the thing: it’s not just a game, anymore, not fully. Not anymore. They will still tiptoe around each other, still make advances and retreats on the board, but not-Mircalla is going to teach her sign language, and Laura is going to let her.

Here's the thing:

Laura expected to hate the beast, and she _doesn't_.

* * *

The next morning, when Laura, the beast, and all the furniture are fully rested, they go to the library.

Laura isn't sure what to expect, can't be when the only library she's ever been inside is not a library at all, but a shop that happens to have a small stack of books inside. Despite this, she tries to get a feasible picture in her head on the journey there. When she hears the word _library_ , she thinks five, ten, fifteen books. This castle is old, elegant, _expensive_ — perhaps there will be thirty, then, in total. Perhaps they're all even books she's never read before. That, Laura knows, will be awfully exciting, although she doesn't have much hope. 

Journey through the forest and all, she is still in same tiny, unbearable town that she was in the day before.

The doors open silently, which is interesting, since all the other doors open with creaks and groans. Laura doesn't give it much thought, _can't_ give it much thought, because nothing could have ever prepared her for— _this_.

“Holy shit,” she says, and means it. Thirty books— isn't that what she hoped for? There must have been hundreds, _thousands_ inside.

(There is a story, there is a story, there is a story, there is a _story_ —

There are _so many_ stories.)

“Surely,” says not-Mircalla. “ _Surely_ you have been inside a library before.”

“That depends,” Laura says, “on your definition of a library. In town, there's ten books. Fifteen, at most. I’ve read them all thousands of times, but there's no other options, so I keep reading them. I’ve probably memorized them all, by now.” Laura notes, somewhat curiously, that her hands are shaking. They've never done that before. “How many books are here?”

“Lots,” guesses the beast. “More than fifteen.”

“More than fifteen,” she echoes. Her eyes trail around the room, soaking in every detail. Even without all the books, this room would still be magnificent. The walls are tall, taller than Laura, taller than ten Laura’s stacked on top of each other. There’s at least twenty bookshelves on either side of the room, each proportioned a certain distance away from each other as they go down the hall. The floor is gorgeous, too, and _shiny_. It’s marble, maybe, or granite. Laura’s too distracted by how sparkly it is to put a name on it. “Have you read all of them?”

“Yes,” not-Mircalla says. Laura stares. She can't imagine ever reading them all, ever having _time_ to read them all. “I’ve been here for a very long time, and these books— they're what have kept me sane.”

“Not Laf, or Perry, or the rest of the talking furniture?” asks Laura.

“God no,” she says. “They're what's _driving_ me insane. But… this library means a lot to me. Half of these books don't exist anywhere else, anymore. If I were to lose them—” the beast shakes her head. “I don't know what I would do.” Laura runs through a new list of names in her head: Judith. Katerina. Matilda. Andromeda? Nothing she comes up with is _right_. Some get close, but never close enough.

“How do you keep them in such good condition?” wonders Laura.

“There's no windows, and there's only lamps at the desks,” not-Mircalla explains. Her voice is quiet, as if to lessen the pain she had to have been feeling. “That keeps them in better condition.They're also organized so none of the shelves are cramped, which stops them from wearing down. There's other stuff too, but— it certainly helps, having magical furniture.” She goes silent for a long, long moment, and something sad settles on her face.

Drawing herself out of whatever daze she's in, not-Mircalla says, “Sign language. There's different dialects, depending on where you are. I was mostly taught by a Styrian princess who stayed here for a few years, but also by random visitors and guests. I’ll be teaching you the mix-matched version I learned, instead of _langue des signes française_.”

Laura will need to come back to the French comment, but more importantly—

“You've met a _princess_?”

“Of course I have. I’m _Countess Karnstein_ , after all.” Her eyes cloud over, nostalgic. The sadness is back. “Pretty thing, Ell was. Smart, too. Her visits were always my favorite.” Not-Mircalla goes quiet, but eventually looks at Laura, curious. “What's France like, now?”

“I wouldn't know,” Laura says. “Never been there.”

The words are greeted with a stare. “We’re in Paris,” the beast says. “This castle is in Paris. How could you have never been?”

Laura stares back. “This castle is in _Canada_.”

“I see,” she says, eventually, and it's a lie. Not-Mircalla doesn't know what this means any more than Laura does. Before she can say anything, _ask_ anything, the beast starts to sign. There's a flurry of movements from her right claw — hand — but each shape goes by too fast for Laura to really see what it is. “Alphabet,” not-Mircalla explains. “Each shape is a letter.” The beast repeats the first five letters — A, B, C, D, and E — and waits for a moment, eyes on Laura.

Laura hesitates for a second, but ultimately raises her own hand, and does her best to mimic the letters. A closed first, a stop sign with her thumb tucked in. The shape of the letter C. Laura pauses, then; tries to recall the next two shapes. She manages to remember D — a circle with her pointer finger up — but remains stumped with E. Laura knows it's something like B, flattens her hand to the same stop motion, but is unable to figure out what to do next.

“Fingers,” says the beast.

Hand still shaped like _stop_ , Laura curls in her thumb, the same as B, and then curls down her remaining fingers.

The process continues for awhile — not-Mircalla showing her a few signs, and Laura repeating them, repeating them, repeating them, until they're memorized, ingrained into her brain — until finally, the whole alphabet is done. Then they move onto shapes that mean certain words, how expressions are just as important as the shapes.

They're not able to get very far into that bit.

“I can't teach you it if I can't do it,” not-Mircalla explains. “And I can't do it, because— look at my face. I can't make expressions. I can't _teach_ you expressions. Let's stick to mostly just signing each letter.”

Laura can think of at least three ways around that, but she doesn't say anything, just keeps practicing.

Beauty and the Beast. Laura and not-Mircalla. They sit there for hours, just sharing a language. They sit there for _days_. (For some reason, Laura had thought learning an entire language would be easy. She is very quickly proven wrong.

An entire _week_ of nearly non-stop practice passes before Laura is even remotely proficient enough to hold a conversation. She still doesn't bother trying until two weeks later, when she's _sure_ she can hold her own.)

 _Hi_ , signs Laura, once she's ready.

 _Hello cupcake_ , signs the beast, very slowly, so she has time to process each letter. _Would you like to read a book?_

She goes very, very still, and carefully, hesitantly look around the room. They had spent all their time in here signing, and Laura had thought— she had thought that she wasn't going to be able to. That she wasn't _allowed_ to. _Yes_ , she signs.

 _Genre_ , requests not-Mircalla.

 _I don't care_ , she replies. _Anything. Everything. Whatever your favorite is. Only, do you have any fairytales?_ Laura wonders if perhaps the beast had hoped that speaking with her hands instead of her mouth would stop her from rambling. It takes longer, sure, but she can manage just fine.

Not-Mircalla laughs, and it's the same strange wheezing noise that she made at the cell all those nights prior. _I have many fairytales. What is your favorite?_

Laura thinks for a moment

(Little Red Riding Hood, off to save her grandmother, and the wolf who comes along to kill them both.)

(Snow White and the seven dwarves that care for her, protect her. That find her a Prince Charming to free her from her curse.)

They all seem a little too ~~real~~ , now.

 _I don't know_ , signs Laura. She isn't sure if she's lying or not. The words don't feel like a lie, but they don't feel like the truth, either. They feel like _nothing_ , like the little gray area between the two. They feel like the _void_.

 _I can tell you the story about a beast, a castle, and the not-so-annoying little girl who got eaten alive_ , replies not-Mircalla, and Laura laughs, loudly. Freely. (She sounds _happy_.

She hasn't sounded happy in a very long time.)

“Do you know how that story ends, yet?” asks Laura, out loud. The question is too important to stumble over, too important to use her hands for.

 _It's not over yet_ , the beast reminds her.

“I know, but...” she sighs. “But do you think it's me? Do you think that I'm going to be able to—”

Not-Mircalla hesitates. _I don't know_ , she signs. _I don't think I can afford to have hope, and then be wrong._

“I want to be able to help you, help all of you,” Laura confesses. “And I think— I think I _know_ it's me. You know? I can feel something — I don't know, something _right_ — about _Laura Hollis, curse breaker_. But I can't just tap you on the forehead, and you're suddenly fine. It's not that easy. I have to fall in love with you. Right? I have to _fall in love_ with you. And I don't know if I— because there's a time limit on this whole thing, isn't there? Before the last petal falls, or whatever. And I don't know if I can _do that_.”

 _I understand_ , not-Mircalla assures her, and she doesn't look sad, doesn't even look particularly upset. _It is a hard thing to ask of anyone, to fall for a beast._

“What? No, that's not it, don't be dumb,” says Laura. “It's not because you're a little _hairy_. I just have… some issues. Emotionally. Linguistically. Just generally as a person.”

The beast stares at her for a long moment, not quite long enough for Laura to feel uncomfortable. _Yes_ , she tells her, finally. _I think it's you. I don't know if you’ll break the curse, but I think it has to be you._ Not-Mircalla shrugs, helpless. Uncomfortable. _Do you think you could? Love me?_

Laura hesitates, unsure of how to answer. Yes, no, maybe— there's a degree of truth to all three answers. The problem is that Laura doesn't _know_ if she’ll ever manage to break the curse, doesn’t know if she can fall in love with _anyone_ , let alone a beast. But she _hopes_ that she can. (Girl turned warrior. Girl turned savior. Girl turned god.

You have to _save_ something, to be a savior.)

Laura raises her hand, and she signs: _yes_.

“Go read a book, cupcake,” says not-Mircalla, out loud. The beast doesn't look at her, _can't_ look at her.

She stands. Leaves.

Does not look back.

( _How in the midst of all this sorrow—_ )

Laura stands too, but only once she's sure the beast is gone. Her hands are shaking again, just from the suggestion. She's going to read a book. She's going to _read a book_. A _new_ book, too. One that she doesn't already have memorized, probably one that she hasn't even heard of before. Laura hasn't been able to do that since, god, a week after moving into town?

She isn't sure how long they’ve been in the library today, but her feet are numb, muscles tense. Taking a step nearly causes Laura to tumble down, but she manages to make her way to a shelf. She manages to grab a book.

There are tears in her eyes when she sits back down, but Laura just wipes them away, pretends they aren't there.

She reads.

(— _can so much hope and love endure?_ )

* * *

Laura reads a _lot_ , actually. 

For the rest of the day, the rest of the week, the rest of the _month_ — Laura reads. Not-Mircalla often joins her, sits next to her, makes jokes about the books she's reading. She still proclaims to have read them all, but Laura is finding it more and more unlikely with every day that passes.

She goes through the books like Lophii goes through grass, like Laura goes after the truth — she hasn't started searching for the East Wing yet, although it's only a matter of time — but despite this, Laura still hasn't made a dent in the number of books left to read.

(By the time she leaves — because she _will_ leave, eventually — Laura wants to have read as many of them as she can.)

The genre doesn't matter, not to her. Laura reads fairytales, yes, and she reads about gods. Greek gods, Roman gods, Egyptian gods. Norse gods. Mesopotamian gods and Sumerian gods, like Inanna, Hastur, Ereshkigal. Every kind of god she can find. She reads about adventures and queens and saviors, too. These are all normal, for her. But she also reads about languages, about science, about history. She reads about things that could never happen, and she reads about things that already have.

There are books on sign language, too. Laura reads the entire collection in a day, not-Mircalla by her side, giving her pointers.

(At one point, she even flips through a book that's comprised solely of names. Estella, Fleur. Gabrielle. Ivonne, Celeste, Josephine. Charlotte. Darlene. Elise. Nadia, Renée, Sinclaire. Tempest. Violetta. None of them ever fit.

Carmen and Camille are the closest she can get, and even those are wrong. Laura tries combining them — Carmille — but it's wrong too; close, very close, but still missing something important. She can't figure out what that is.)

Her father _gathers an army_ , and she sits in a castle, in a library, in a chair, at a desk, and _reads_.

Laura knows it won't last.

(She is right.)

* * *

Laura wakes up, and it feels like any other day.

She gets out of her bed, slowly, carefully. (And it _is_ her bed now, no matter how much she initially pretended it wasn't. Her bed, her room. Her clothes. Her ~~castle~~.) The floor is freezing on her feet, but she manages to get to Betty for a new outfit. Laura expects a dress — has been wearing one every day that she's been here — but instead she ends up in a fancy white shirt, a black vest, a pair of black pants. It's like a suit, only without the jacket. Something a _boy_ would wear.

(She loves it.)

“I thought you only wanted me in pretty dresses,” Laura says, half amused, half annoyed. “Have you changed your mind?”

Betty heaves out a sigh, and the sides of the wardrobe sag. “Listen, Laura. I like you. So— Mircalla? She's going to be avoiding you, avoiding _everyone_ today. Please don't let her. She needs someone to talk to, and it won't be us. It _can't_ be us. So just— go find her, go talk to her. Don't let her seclude herself in some dark corner to wait out the day.”

Laura goes still.

She knows what that means, what that _could_ mean if she really tries. She could escape. Could walk down the stairs and right out the door, and nobody would know. Nobody could stop her. She'd be free.

And the curse would never get broken.

She knows she can't do that.

“Okay,” Laura says, finally. If this happened weeks sooner, she would've seized the opportunity to run. Would’ve grabbed whatever books she could and bolted. But now— now she _knows_ the beast, knows Laf and Perry and Betty. She can't just walk away from them. (Forming attachments is _deadl_. She should've known better. She should've _known better_.) “Do you know where she is?”

“In her room, probs,” Betty says. “Do you know how to get there?”

“No,” she says, shakes her head. Not-Mircalla’s room. It sounds like a fairytale in itself. Her room. Her clothes, her wardrobe. Her mirror. Her _bed_. “I have _no clue_ how to—” the words come out strangled, and Laura stops, _has_ to stop. She needs to stop thinking about the bed. The stupid, pretty, probably very comfortable bed. What if she's _on it_ , when Laura bursts in? What if _Laura_ somehow ends up on it? What if—

She takes a second to remind herself that she's a _beast_.

“Are you done freaking out?” asks Betty, pointedly. “Yes? Okay, good. Laf’s outside the door, and they’ll take you there.”

“Thanks,” Laura says. Leaves.

Does not look back.

The door closes behind her, clicks into place, and for a very long moment, Laura doesn't move. Her mind is still on other things (like beds, like the _beast’s_ bed, like not-Mircalla _on_ her bed) but she manages to look down at Laf, and say, “Hi.”

Laf sighs in response, just like Betty did. “Follow me,” they say, instead of saying hi back.

“Is something wrong?” asks Laura, but still follows them when Laf starts walking — waddling? They are a clock, after all — away from her. “Everyone’s acting… I don't know. Weird.” Everyone, as in only Betty and Laf, but her point remains.

“It's like this every year,” Laf tells her. “We’re just— ugh.” They sigh, again, louder this time. “Jealous. I guess. You’ll see why.”

Laura stares. “You all simultaneously get insanely jealous on the same day every year,” she says. “That's…” she stops, makes a face. “Incredibly well coordinated.”

“We wouldn't _be_ jealous if you could just _hurry up_ and _break the curse_ ,” Laf points out. Their voice is sharp, sharper than intended, and Laura stops, hurt. Laf winces. “Look. Boleyn. I’m sorry. Just— today's a bad day. You’ll see why, like I said.” They pause, and then add, “Her room is at the end of this corridor. I can't — _won’t_ — go any further, but… don't take anything she says personally. And, ah. Good luck.”

Laf sighs, again. Leaves.

Does not look back.

Laura stares at the door. It's an ordinary door, it's not going to bite her if she gets close. Laura knows that. But she also knows that inside this door is not-Mircalla’s _bedroom_. As in, where she sleeps. As in, where her _bed_ is. Laura’s not— she's not _obsessed_ with the thought of the beast’s bed. It's just that she's a lesbian, and not-Mircalla’s a lesbian (even if she _is_ currently a beast), and… it's new. For her.

If they were still strangers, Laura knows she wouldn't be having this much difficulty opening the door. But they're _not_ still strangers.

Laura _knows_ her now, knows how much she loves reading, knows how much her books mean to her. She knows that she used to be a Countess, that she fell in love with a princess named Ell. (Laura doesn't know _much_ about Ell, but she knows she's not here, in the castle. She knows that she won't ever be able to break the curse with her love for not-Mircalla.

She knows that she's probably dead.)

Not-Mircalla knows Laura, too.

She knows things that Laura has never admitted to before, knows her hopes and fears and dreams. Knows about her dead mother, her overbearing father, about the tiny little room they used to live in. She knows that Laura is scared, _terrified_ , that she won't be able to break the curse in time. (Not-Mircalla pretends to not know that one, but Laura knows she does.)

She knows her favorite books, her favorite poems. Knows that, sometimes, she forgets that she's being held in the castle against her will. The beast knows Laura in a way nobody has ever known her.

(This is because she doesn't _just_ know her.

She also _understands_ her.)

Laura really shouldn't be so scared to enter her room. She just needs to think of something to say, when she does. Something smart, like a quote, or maybe something funny — Laura can do funny, of course she can, she's _hilarious_ — although something smart would be better. Not-Mircalla is so smart it's almost intimidating, and Laura wants, desperately, to impress her.

(There's only one thing she can think of, that might accomplish that. What was it, that the beast had said all that time ago?

“You come up with something. I’m sure your decision will be _so_ _wonderful_ that I’ll take it on as my actual name.”

Laura can do _wonderful_ , too.)

She throws open the door, carelessly, like she hasn’t spent the last five minutes hovering outside, like she isn't terrified that not-Mircalla will get mad at her for barging in. “So, I was thinking. What are your thoughts on the name _Carmille_?”

Not-Mircalla stares. Laura stares back.

“Carmille,” she repeats, slowly, as if testing it out. “It sounds like you're just mixing around the letters of _Mircalla_ and hoping for the best.”

“No, Carmille has an E, and Mircalla has an A, they're completely different,” Laura says, automatically, mind on autopilot. What the hell. What the hell. What the _hell_. “I like Carmilla better, though. Pretend I said that.”

(When Laf had said that she’ll “see why” soon, Laura really wasn't expecting _this_.)

“Hm,” she says, thoughtful. “Carmilla. I like that. At the very least, we can try it out.”

If it this is just a test, just a game, just a power play, Laura wonders if she passed. Wonders if passing is even an option. Wonders if finally coming up with a name will change anything.

She ventures further into the room, taking it in. Determinedly _not_ looking at the bed, or the person in it. “Your room is bigger than mine. That's hardly fair.”

“It's my castle, cupcake,” says not-Mircalla. Carmilla.

Laura sits down at the desk, twirling the chair around to face her. “So,” she says. “Are we going to talk about this?”

“This,” she echoes, as if she has no clue what Laura is talking about. (She does, of course. She knows _exactly_ what she's talking about.)

“I hate to break it to you, Carm, but you're kinda,” she makes a face. “Human? Not-beastly?”

“Oh, _that_ ,” she says. “Yes, well. It happens every year, on the anniversary of the curse. You’ll have to get used to get used to that, I suppose.” Carmilla is silent for a moment longer, before she adds, “I’m surprised you're still here. I thought you'd seize the opportunity to run.”

“Well, I didn't,” Laura says, and the words are— weighted, not as trivial as she meant for them to be. “I’m _glad_ I didn't. You look—” she swallows. _Really attractive_ , she thinks, but doesn't say. (Skin white as snow, lips red as blood, hair black as ebony. Very, very familiar.)

(Laura had read Snow White only the day before.)

Her mouth is dry, and she wishes she’d had the foresight to bring a glass of water with her. “You look, uh. Not bad. I mean, you look good. Great, even. Really, really, _really_ nice. Much better than ‘not bad’.” Laura goes for a smile, but it comes out as a grimace. “Um. You have a nice face.”

“Thanks, I grew it myself,” not-Mircalla — no, _Carmilla_ — says, not quite exasperated, but close. “You have a nice face too.”

“Thank you,” Laura says, immediately, _emotionlessly_. (This is the way she has been taught to respond to compliments. If you smile, people will think you're interested in them, and they’ll continue. If you frown, they’ll get mad, perhaps even violent. _The best way to respond_ , her father used to say, _is to do neither_.

Laura will need to unlearn this.)

She stands, makes her way to edge of Carmilla’s bed. With her permission, Laura pulls herself up, situates herself in the bottom left corner; close to her, but not _too_ close. “Do you want to talk about it?” she asks, finally, _carefully_.

“What, my face?” asks Carmilla. “If you'd like to keep talking about how attractive I am—”

“No, I mean, the fact that you _have_ a face,” Laura says. “The fact that Betty begged me to come talk to you, and Laf said they wouldn't come any closer to your room. The fact that they apparently all get _super jealous_ every year, and you feel the need to hide from all of them. The fact that you're not even a _little_ happy about being human again.”

“I’m not,” she says. “Human again, I mean. It's just today, for twenty four hours. The anniversary of the curse, like I said. When it first happened, I thought—” Carmilla sighs. “I don't want to talk about it.”

“Okay,” Laura says, as easy as that. “You don't have to.”

It's silent for one, two, three seconds, and then she can't take it anymore. “What, that's it?” asks Carmilla. “You're going to just let me stop?”

“Of course,” she says, as if anything else would be insane. “We’re friends. I’m not going to pressure you to do something that you don't want to do.”

(This is the first time either of them have said the word _friend_.

Carmilla smiles.)

“I thought the curse was gone,” she confesses, just like that. The knowledge that she can stop at any second, at any detail, and that Laura will _let_ her— it’s very comforting. “When it first happened. I thought I was _free_. But then— it was just me. Everyone else was still cursed. And I didn't even care, because _I_ wasn't. I was so happy that I was finally free that I _didn't care_ that nobody else was. How awful is _that_? What sort of _monste_ —”

“It's not that awful,” Laura says, and she means it. Awful is killing people, is turning people into beasts, into furniture. Awful is people like Will, people like Inanna. Not Carmilla. Never _Carmilla_. “You thought you were free from the curse. Anyone would be happy.” Laura creeps a little closer, close enough to rest a hand on her shin, still hidden under the blankets Carmilla has covered herself in. A gesture of comfort, of support.

“They all thought I was free, too, and they were… not happy,” she closes her eyes, squeezes them shut, like she can't bear to look at Laura. Like she can't bear to _remember_. “They were upset. Because _they_ weren't human again. Laf couldn't bring themselves to even make a joke about it— and I felt bad, then. For them. Because I was the reason they were cursed, the reason we were all cursed, and then they weren't cured with me. I felt bad. But I was still _so happy_.” Carmilla shakes her head. “I should have _known better_. The next day, I was back to being a beast. I was so _devastated_ , so _mad_. I had been _sure_ that I was free, and then— and then I wasn't. _They_ were the happy ones, then.”

“They were happy that the curse wasn't broken?” asks Laura. It sounds _unfathomable_ , to her. She _knows_ these people — knows Laf and Perry and Betty and most of the other furniture — and she can't imagine any of them being _happy_ over this. (She also knows that Carmilla is telling the truth.)

“They were happy,” she clarifies, “that the curse wasn't broken just for _me_. It happened again, the next year, and I still thought— I still _hoped_ — but I was proven wrong. The third year, I knew it was coming, and I knew it wouldn't last. So I made the most of it. I had _fun_. I did that for—” Carmilla stops, uses her fingers to count something out. “For the next twenty eight years. I think that was my mistake. _Enjoying_ it. That's when they really started to— to _resent_ me, I think. So I stopped. I didn't hide, not then, not yet. Just pretended everything was normal.”

“You shouldn't have had to,” Laura tells her. “You shouldn't have had to pretend.”

“Maybe not,” Carmilla says, but it's clear in her voice, in her face, that she doesn't believe Laura, “but I still did, for thirty three years. And then one day I knew— that wasn't _enough_ , anymore. They could still _see_ me, could still _hear_ me. Ever since, I’ve secluded myself in here, and…” she shrugs, ducking her head, avoiding Laura’s gaze. “Hid.”

“Hey,” she says, softly, as soft as she can. As _kind_ as she can. Laura pulls herself closer to Carmilla, so that they're next to each other, shoulder to shoulder. Their hands are only centimeters apart. Laura does her best to pretend she doesn't notice. “It's _okay_ to hide.”

“I know this is just Inanna’s way of making this worse. That she wants it to split us apart, make them jealous, make _me_ hate them for being jealous.” She looks back up, and Laura’s heart stops. There are _tears_ in her eyes. “It wasn't supposed to _work_.”

Laura isn't sure how old Carmilla is, anymore. Isn't sure how long this curse has been torturing her, torturing them all. She isn't sure if she _wants_ to know.

But seeing her on her bed, tears in her eyes—

Laura is _angry_.

Angry at Inanna. Angry at Laf, at Perry, at Betty. Angry at Carmilla, even, for thinking that any of this is _okay_ —

Just _angry_.

“I’ll be right back,” she says, and her voice sounds _off_ even to her. Sounds _dangerous_. Deadly. Like the voice of a warrior. (Like the voice of a _god_.)

Before Laura can do anything — move, get off the bed, gather up all the furniture, _yell_ — Carmilla’s hand snaps out, fast, faster than Laura thought possible. She grabs onto her arm. Does not let go. “Laura,” she says, almost chastising. “Don't let me fool you: their reaction is _justified_ , and I—” Carmilla sighs, and it's like all the air in her body vanishes. She slumps down, grip on Laura’s arm loosening, loosening, loosening, until her hand is back where it was before. Centimeters away from Laura’s hand. “I deserve it.”

“Nobody deserves that,” Laura tells her. “Not even you. _Especially_ not you.” She hesitates for half a second, unsure, _scared_ , and then shifts her hand closer, closer, closer, until it’s entwined with Carmilla’s.

“You don't _understand_ ,” says Carmilla. She's upset, _visibly_ upset, but she does not let go of Laura. (She nearly does, almost pulls her hand away, but then she looks over at her, glances down at their entwined fingers, and she _can't_.)

Here’s the thing, when it comes to Carmilla: she believes — truly, genuinely, _wholeheartedly_ believes — that she is a monster.

She is _wrong_.

Laura knows this, of _course_ Laura knows this. She knew it as soon as she _saw_ her, knew it even as she was pleading with her, begging to switch places with her father. She _also_ knows that it's unlikely — close to impossible — that she will ever manage to convince _Carmilla_ of this fact.

(Still, Laura knows. The beast is many things, but a _monster_ is not one of them.)

“I understand perfectly—”

“They're not the ones who got cursed, Laura. _I_ was. They were just— collateral damage. They got caught in the blast, and it’s not fair, it’s _not_ , but I can't fix them, and— they're allowed to get mad at me,” Carmilla tells her. “Laf is a candlestick holder, and Perry is a clock, and they've been stuck like this for _hundreds_ of years. I’d be mad, if I was them. I’d be _furious_.”

“But they shouldn't be mad at _you_ ,” Laura says, _insists_. This is the truth. Not _a_ truth, not _her_ truth. This is _the_ truth. “They're allowed to get mad, and be angry, and they can scream that from _rooftops_ if they want, but _not at you_. This isn't your fault. It’s Inanna’s. So they can get mad at _her_ —” Laura gestures vaguely towards the ceiling, as if Inanna is on the roof, watching Carmilla suffer. As if Inanna is not a god at all, but instead a girl, something Laura could fight, something Laura could _beat_. “Not you.”

“All she wanted was a place to wait out the storm,” she recalls. “But it was my birthday. My ball. So I said no.” Carmilla looks back down at their hands again. “That's on me.” She nods, sure of it. “That's on _me_.”

“Get up,” Laura says, tugs on her hand. “ _Up_.”

“What?” Carmilla says. Stares. “No, I’m _hiding_ , you can't make me leave— _stop_ —”

Laura pulls the blankets off of her, throws them onto the floor. She drags Carmilla out of bed, forces her towards her wardrobe. “Hi,” Laura says, and shoves Carmilla closer. “Can you give her nice clothes?”

The wardrobe doesn't spare her a glance. “ _Really_ , Mircalla? _This_ is the girl who’s supposed to break the curse?” she laughs, like the thought is funny. Like the thought of _Laura_ being able to solve anything, _fix_ anything, is funny. “How can _she_ be a match for _you_? The dark beauty of the world’s rotting core?”

“She's stronger than you think,” Carmilla says, even though they were fighting, nearly _yelling_ at each other, only moments before. “Now give me clothes, Matska.”

The wardrobe moves slightly, like she’s trying to shake a nonexistent head. “God, you're predictable,” says Matska, tossing out an outfit anyways. “It’s _embarrassing_.”

Carmilla makes a face, like she wants to say something, insult her back. Instead, she just takes the clothes, retreats into the bathroom to put it on.

As soon as she's gone from view, Matska turns on Laura, who is still stuck between mortification and anger. “I know you're in the midst of angsting about how you and angelpants over there are starcrossed — beauty and the beast or whatever, right? You're _clearly_ the beast — but that is no excuse for losing your sense of humor.”

“You care about her,” Laura says, softly, and only a little bit baffled about the way she's being treated. “ _So do I_.”

“And yet here I am,” Matska counters, “still a wardrobe.”

“I don't know who you are, but—”

“Just like you don't know who _she_ is, right?” asks Matska. “Mircalla Karnstein, eighteen, and so _very_ excited for her ball.” She laughs, one sharp, mocking noise. “I’ve been by her side throughout _everything_. Do you think you're _special_? Laura Hollis, pathetic little girl from a town nobody knows the name of. Do you think all the girls before you weren't as smart, or as brave? You don't hold a _candle_ to Ell—”

“Mattie, _stop_.” Everything freezes, everything except Carmilla. She's a whirlwind, a wildfire, stomping forwards with _anger_ in her eyes. (Laura didn't even notice her leave the bathroom, a feat that seems impossible, now. She can't even tear her eyes away.) “Just _stop_.”

The wardrobe stares, incredulous. “ _Mircalla_ —”

Carmilla ignores her. “Laura,” she says instead, and turns to face her. The anger diminishes a little when she looks at Laura — her eyes grow kind, her voice becomes softer  — but she's no less eye catching. Carmilla raises her arm, holds her hand out. Waits for Laura to take it. “Where are we going?”

(Here's the thing: Laura knows she could've fought back. Could've plastered on a sneer, hissed back her own insults. Her time around Will has proven that she's capable of it. Maybe she would've, if Carmilla hadn't arrived.

But Carmilla _does_ arrive.

Laura is very, very glad that she does.)

She spares Matska — Mattie — one last look, and then Laura turns, takes her hand. Leads Carmilla out of the room.

“I’m really sorry, about her. About what she said,” Carmilla says, not even a second after the door closes behind them. “You didn't deserve that. It wasn't true, either, I promise.”

Carmilla nudges her, bumps their shoulders together, and it makes Laura _ache_.

She knows what this gesture is, what it _means_. It's a sign of support, a sign of a shared burden. _Hundreds_ of years as a beast, no human companions throughout any of it, and Carmilla still — _still_ — knows how to comfort someone.

(Laura wonders, then. Wonders how long she has waited for this, _hoped_ for this. All those years—

And she is still _kind_.)

There is a brief silence, after their shoulders clash together, and then Carmilla squeezes her hand, adds, “I’m not good at… this. Apologizing. I never have been, even before. But I _am_ sorry.”

“You don't need to apologize,” Laura says. “I’ve heard worse from people far more cruel. But _thank_ _you_ , for coming to my rescue, especially when you did. My knight in silver armor. You stopped me from saying something I’d regret.”

She leads Carmilla out of her room, along the halls, down the stairs. Laura spots Laf, Perry, a few of their friends along the way. She bites her tongue, does not look at them. (There are a few things she wants to say to them, too, that she’ll surely regret later.)

They reach the front door. Before Carmilla can say anything, before she can try to convince her to let them stay inside, Laura pulls the doors open.

The cold hits her, hits both of them, immediately. Laura grabs one, two coats from the coat rack next to the door, and they pull them on, button them up.

(They have to let go of each other’s hands, to do this. As soon as they're on, their hands are back together, fingers entwined.

They pretend not to realize that it isn't necessary.)

Laura tugs Carmilla outside, down the steps up to the castle. She drags her over to a bench off to the side, and sits down despite the snow covering it. Carmilla joins her, doesn't have any choice _but_ to join her. She brushes away the snow on her side first.

“It's pretty, out here,” Laura says. “Peaceful.”

“Cold, too,” adds Carmilla.

There a few things, that Laura wants to say. _Needs_ to say. About how she feels, about Ell and Matska. About the curse. About Inanna. Things that they will need to talk about, eventually.

Instead, Laura laughs, and she says: “What a pair we make. Me, Little Red Riding Hood. Journeying through the forest to find her grandmother. Save her father. And you, Snow White. Searching for your Prince Charming to free you from your curse.”

“We do resemble them, don't we,” Carmilla concedes. “Skin white as snow, lips red as blood, hair black as ebony. Can you think of a more fitting description of me? But _you_ — you are not just the little girl, in that story. You're the huntsman, too. The wolf killer.”

Their eyes meet.

“I think,” Carmilla says, softly, cautiously. Testing her. “I think that you’re the type of girl to kill the beast, not fall in love with it.

“ _I_ think that I’m more the type of girl to fall in love with all the things that will later kill her,” counters Laura. “Icarus, reborn, only it’s not the _sun_ I’m after.” She knows they’re friends, now. Knows the game is over, that they’ve both lost. But it is hard for either of them to lose that mentality. (Predator and prey. Cat and mouse—

Laura never did figure out which one she was.)

“Laf calls me Boleyn, you know,” Laura says, conversationally, like the air between them is not charged with something dangerous, something _deadly_. “I think it’s very fitting, now that I’ve had time to think about it. She thought only with her heart, and she got her head cut off. And here I am, trying to break a curse with nothing but my heart, nothing but my love. I can only wonder who will be holding the axe, when it comes crashing down on me.”

“What axe?” offers Carmilla. “You’re far too pretty to lose your head.”

Laura flashes a smile, teeth shining. Teeth _gleaming_. (Perhaps Carmilla is right. Perhaps she is more than just Little Red Riding Hood. But if she is, then she's not just the huntsman, not just the wolf killer

She's the _wolf_ , too.)

“Laf said that, too,” she says, and knows it's time for this to end. They’re _friends_ , not enemies. Not— whatever this is. “I’m sure _Matska_ would disagree.”

Carmilla slumps down, and the moment is over. The energy - the tense, _dangerous_ energy - is gone, leaving only two girls sitting on a bench. “Mattie is… protective,” she says, eventually. “That’s no excuse for what she said, but. She worries, sometimes. About the choices I make. She never agreed with me hiding, and I think she just wanted to get back at me, somehow. You just happened to be _convenient_.”

“You two are close?” asks Laura, as if she doesn’t already know the answer. ( _I’ve been by her side throughout everything_ —)

“She’s practically my sister.”

Laura nods, like she was expecting that, and she was. There aren't very many alternative explanations for how cruel Matska had been. “Then it’s okay,” she says. “Not right, not forgotten. But it’s okay.”

“What a pair we make,” Carmilla says. She smiles, all teeth, and it takes Laura’s _breath_ away. The smile is a _thank you_ as much as it is anything else, and Carmilla leans towards her, rests her body against Laura’s. “But I don't think that's all we are. Snow White and Little Red Riding Hood reborn. It's a nice sentiment, but we’re our own fairytale too. Beauty and the Beast.”

“You must be the _beauty_ , then,” Laura says. “The prettiest, the wittiest— girls must have been tripping over themselves to get close to you.”

“Back in 1698, waltzing may as well have been sex. Partners were face to face, chest to chest. All that whirling,” Carmilla recalls. “And I waltzed with a _lot_ of girls. But I only ever— there was only _one_ girl that _mattered_. That _meant_ something. That wasn't just a dance partner, but instead somebody I lov— somebody I _cared for_. Just one.”

“Ell,” guesses Laura. “Your Styrian princess.”

Carmilla sighs, and she looks sad. “She's dead,” she says. “You probably guessed that much.”

“I don't know who, or how, or _why_ ,” Laura says. She is many things, but a psychic is not one of them. She doesn't magically know everything about everything, no matter how much she wishes she does. “But, yes. I knew there was a reason that she's not here, that she can’t break the curse. And I assumed she was probably dead.”

“It’s my fault,” she says. (This is a lie, Laura knows. She also knows that it will be very, very difficult to convince _Carmilla_ of this.)

“I think,” Laura tells her, “that you blame yourself for a lot of things that have nothing to do with you.”

“It was Inanna,” says Carmilla, and _oh_. No wonder she blames herself. “An entire _year_ before she came to my door, begged for a place to rest her head— she killed Ell. She killed my parents. But I got through it. _Badly_ , but I got through it. And then she was there, in my house, in my castle. And she was talking about them. Like she knew them. Like she knew what _happened_ to them. Because she did.” Carmilla squeezes her hand, almost tight enough to break something. Laura doesn’t complain. “It's my fault.”

“No, it’s not,” she insists, because it's _not_. It’s Inanna’s fault, it's only ever going to be Inanna’s fault.

“I’m not the first person she's done this to,” Carmilla says. “Inanna doesn't pick random girls, and hope that they’ll leave her in the storm. She picks them in advance, maybe _years_ before. Manipulates their life until she knows that they won't let her inside.” She looks at Laura, eyes full of tears, and Laura’s heart _shatters_. “She killed them so I would say _no_.”

Laura wants to grab onto her, force her to listen. Tell her: _You’re still wrong_. Tell her: _This is on Inanna, not you, never you_. Tell her: _I have seen men, and I have seen monsters, and you are neither._

Tell her: _There is a reason that I did not run._

Tell her: _I’m not in love with you. Not yet. But it would be very, very easy to fall._

(Listen to her say: _This is not a fairytale. You should have ran_.)

Carmilla is many things. Stubborn is one of them. There will never be a day that she does not blame herself for their deaths, for the curse. For everything that has happened, for everything that _will_ happen.

Her and Laura are a lot more alike than either could have predicted.

“When we… first met,” she says, as delicately as she can, because this sounds better than _when I broke inside to rescue my father_ , “I tried to convince my dad to switch places with me. And he said that he already lost one girl, and that he can't lose another.” Laura’s eyes flicker up, meet Carmilla’s. Stay there for one second, two seconds. Forever. “He was referring to my mother.”

“She's dead,” Carmilla says, not quite a question.

“Yes,” says Laura, only a little hesitant. She has never talked about this before. “I know they were married, that he loved her. That she's gone. But I don't know her name, or what she was like. I don't know what she looked like, what her interests were. I don't know if we’re similar, or polar opposites. I don't know how she died.”

She squeezes her hand, gentle. Human or not, Carmilla’s impossible strength remains. “He won't tell you?”

“He says it was the bubonic plague,” Laura says, and Carmilla’s eyebrows shoot upwards. She knows, just like Laura, how impossible that is. “I didn't believe him, but I didn’t have any proof that he was lying. And I— I didn't want him to be lying. I mean, he's my _dad_ , he's not supposed to _lie_ to me—” Laura stops, swallows. Forces back the tears in her eyes. “I read about the plague, in your library. And not only is it more or less nonexistent now, it barely even affected Canada. And yet that's what he came up with. He couldn't say something mildly believable, like— like— her getting trampled over by a horse, or something. It had to be the _bubonic plague_.”

“You don't deserve that, cupcake,” Carmilla tells her, because she knows better than most that _I’m sorry_ does nothing. “After all of this is over — _if_ this is ever over — I can confront him, if you'd like. My time as a beast will have left me plenty of ways to frighten of people.”

“ _When_ all of this is over,” Laura counters.

“If you say so,” says Carmilla. She hesitates for a moment, before she shrugs, throws caution to the wind. She doesn't have anything to lose. “Is this really all you wanted to do out here? Talk? Because I could be down for something a little more… fun.” Carmilla winks.

(Laura is almost — _almost_ — tempted to take her up on that. The thought of kissing Carmilla has crossed her mind more times than she'd care to admit in these past few hours.

It's not her fault that Carmilla looks like an angel.)

“I don’t— I’m not—” she flushes red, brighter than the dress Carmilla wore to her ball. Brighter than _blood_. “That's not a good idea. But. I know what is, so come with me.”

Laura stands, pulls Carmilla up with her. Tugs her away from the bench. Away from the door. Away from any reminders that she’ll be a beast again in only a few hours. Laura doesn't know how long — how far — they walk, but as the castle completely fades from view, they come to a stop.

Snow surrounds them. No benches to sit on, no gazebos to keep them safe from the cold. Just snow.

(They are still holding hands.)

“You were upset, earlier,” Laura explains. “Sad. But you weren’t _angry_. And if anyone in this castle — anyone in this _town_ — has a right to be angry, it’s you. So get angry. Yell, scream, I don't care. Get _angry_.”

“I thought you said you had a _good_ idea,” Carmilla says. What she doesn't say, but what Laura still hears, is: _I don't think I have anything to get angry about._

Once, Laura had described her as being quite nice, beneath the claws and growls and teeth. Now, she knows she is. Now, she thinks that perhaps this is the ultimate description of Carmilla. She's so willing to let them all hate her, but she refuses to hate them back. (And Laura knows it would be easy for her to. Snide remarks and compliment-shaped-insults are incredibly easy to fall back on.

This is a _choice_. And it's one that Carmilla makes every single day.)

“What, so Laf and Perry are allowed to get mad at you, at me, and you’re not allowed to get mad back? You're not allowed to get mad at Inanna?” asks Laura. She scoffs, loud. “Stop feeling sorry for yourself, and _get angry_.”

“If I get angry, I don’t think I’ll be able to _stop_ , cupcake,” Carmilla says, tries for a smile. Fails miserably. “And I— that’s not— I can’t _do_ that. Because when I’m a beast, I’m not angry, okay? I’m _scary_.”

Laura lets go of her hand, stares her down. “You’re not a beast right now.”

Carmilla sighs. Gives in, finally. (She never really had a choice.) “You’re not a kindness, Laura,” she tells her, and Laura rears back. “Not like _that_. Just… Inanna leaving a way out? A way to break the curse? It’s not her being kind. Gods are _never_ kind. It’s just another slap, because _who could ever learn to love a beast_? She stole _everything—_ ” Carmilla cut herself off, hands in fists, eyes blazing. “Everything. My love, my family. My hope. My face. My _ability to die_. She took it all away. And then she put a _time limit_ on me. Until the last petal falls. And there aren’t very many petals left.”

She turns away, and Laura lets her. Waits for her to speak again.

“I hate Inanna, but not for the reasons I should,” she confesses. “I don’t hate her for everything that happened, for everything she did. I hate her for _me_ . Because she broke me. Destroyed who I was, and made sure I could never forget it. I used to be kind. I loved people, I loved life. Now I’m cynical and rude and the people in this castle _fear_ me. And I don’t care.” Carmilla stops, looks back at Laura. “You help. You bring out the old me. The me that screamed at the gods, just to see if they could _hear_. The me that laughed and cried and loved and forgave. The me that _lived_. But I’m never going to recover from this. It’s been two hundred years, Laura, and I’m so _tired_.”

Laura looks away, examines the snow surrounding them. Tilts her head back, stares at the clouds overhead. And then she opens her mouth and _screams_ — “Can you _hear_ me? I’m going to _find_ you. I’m going to _destroy_ you.”

Carmilla grabs her arm, incredulous, confused. “Cupcake, the gods don’t care about us, but they _are_ listening.”

“Good,” she says, and _means_ it. Laura’s read a lot about gods. And all that knowledge, all those stories— they’re going to help her _win_. Because Laura knows their history. She knows how this has gone, before. Knows that the beast kills the beauty, or the petals all fall, or that the beauty runs far, far away. Knows that there hasn’t been a happy ending yet.

Knows that that’s going to change.

Because this time? This time the beauty has a library full of books, and Laura has found Inanna within them. Has learned _her_ story. (She knows her strengths, but she knows her weaknesses, too. Knows about Hastur. Knows about Ereshkigal.

She knows _Inanna_.)

“I know your _name_ , Inanna,” she shouts, bellows. Loud enough her lungs ache, and then even louder. “I know your _story_. And you’re not going to win. You’re not going to get him back. I’ll make sure of that. _Ereshkigal_ will make sure of that.”

Carmilla is hesitant to join in  — because she’s scared of Inanna, scared of her wrath, scared of her power, even if she won’t admit it — but there’s a smile on her face as she watches Laura yell. She reaches back out, entwines their fingers again.

(— _you bring out the old me—_ )

She tilts her own head back, Laura’s hand in hers, and _laughs_ through her fear. “We’re going to _beat you_ ,” she shouts, voice joining Laura’s. Two girls against one god, and the vast emptiness of the sky. “Curse us all and watch us _thrive_.”

“Find yourself a good hiding place,” starts Laura, loud as she can, before she grins at Carmilla, eggs her on.

“We’re going to _find you_ ,” Carmilla screams, and this is a _promise_. “We’re going to _win_.”

And then they’re laughing, collapsing in the snow. Hands still entwined. Hearts still pounding. The sun shines through the clouds, beaming down on them. Keeping them warm even as they freeze. (If the gods really are listening, Laura wonders who she has to thank for this. Wonders who’s on their side.)

Laura scoops up a handful of snow, pats it down into a ball. Throws it at Carmilla.

She ducks, avoids it entirely, and scoops up her own handful. It hits Laura directly in the face, and neither one of them can fight off their smiles as she wipes it away.

Laura throws more snow at her, and when that misses, even more. When she finally manages to land a hit, Laura laughs, and it comes easily. (She used to have to force her laughter. With Will, with her father. Even with Carmilla, at the very start. She doesn't anymore.)

They’re still kids, and it’s moments like this that make them realize that. Barely kids, maybe. Half-kids. But still so very young.

Laura doesn’t know how long they stay out there. Yelling at the sky, yelling _past_ the sky. Twirling and tumbling through the snow. But as they walk back to the castle, walk through the front doors, her hair is wet and she can’t stop smiling.

It’s been a good day.

(And it’s not over yet.)

“Thank you,” Carmilla says, once they’re dry. They’re in the library, hands still tangled, legs brushing together. Chairs as close as possible. “This was— really fun, and I haven’t had fun in a very long time.”

“I haven’t either,” Laura tells her, peering towards her. Between comforting Carmilla and yelling at gods with her, she never got a chance to really _look_ at her. There’s still similarities, between her now and her the day before. Her eyes are the same mesmerizing brown, her hair is the same shade as the beast’s fur. Her teeth are sharp, sharper than a human’s could ever be. And she’s still stunning. A different kind of stunning, yes, but still stunning all the same. Laura looks away. “So maybe I should be thanking you.”

“I want to show you something,” Carmilla says, abruptly, like she knows what's going on through Laura’s head. She stands, pulls her up with her. Drags Laura through the library, past the bookcases until they reach the very end of the hall. There’s a door, one that Laura has seen during her own exploration of the library. (It’s locked, too. Laura’s tried to get inside more times than she’ll ever admit.) Carmilla knocks on the top left corner twice, the middle three times, and then once more at the top left.

The door opens.

Laura stares.

“I know you've been curious about the east wing,” Carmilla says, and pulls her inside, through the door. “And I know that the whole petal thing never made that much sense. So here we are.”

In the center of the room, there's a table holding a tall glass jar. Laura walks closer, closer, closer, until she can see what’s inside.

A rose.

A dying rose.  

Laura turns to Carmilla, eyes wide with something that looks a lot like fear. “There's barely any petals left,” she says. She tries to count them, but they all blend into each other. Still, there can't be more than three. Four, at the most.

Carmilla is quiet for a long, long moment. “A petal falls whenever I gain hope, whenever I think I can get out of this mess, break the curse,” she admits. “Before you showed up, I had lost twelve, thirteen petals. _Two hundred years_ , and I only thought that maybe things would change, would get better _thirteen times_. And then you came along.” She laughs, and it sounds _sad_. “It's an ordinary rose, Laura. There was only forty petals to start with. And now there's three.”

“You’ve lost _twenty four_ petals since I’ve shown up,” Laura realizes. “Carmilla—”

“It's okay,” she says, quickly, because she _knows_ what Laura is thinking. (Thirteen petals in two hundred years. Twenty four petals in _one month_.) “It's a good thing, for the most part. It means I think we can win. We just don't have a lot of time to do it.”

Laura glances back down at the petals. They seem so innocent, so pretty, and yet— they're going to take away Carmilla, if they're not fast. If she can't fall in love with her quick enough. (Laura thinks that maybe she doesn't like roses after all.) “How long do you think we have?”

“A couple days,” guesses Carmilla. “Depends on how quickly I lose hope, really, and that happens more frequently that I’d care to admit.”

“That's not very long,” Laura says. Sighs. Turns to Carmilla, stares her dead in the eyes. “It just means I’m going to have to fall in love with you quicker,” Laura says, determined, as if she isn't already halfway there.

Carmilla stays silent, but another petal does not fall, so she counts it as a win. Laura tugs on her hand, looks back at the door they'd entered through. “Let’s go sit back down,” she says, so they do.

It's quiet, for awhile. Laura tries to process this information, Carmilla tries not to lose hope again.

Soon enough, sitting in silence is not enough. Laura reaches around Carmilla to pull a book from the shelf — she needs, desperately, a distraction, and a book is the best kind — before realizing exactly what kind of position she has placed them in. To reach the shelf, she’d been forced to lean in, arm outstretched over Carmilla’s shoulder, and now—

Their faces are only centimeters apart.

“Um,” says Laura, softly. Careful not to lean in any further. “I didn't mean to do this.”

Carmilla’s eyebrows raise up, up, up. Impossibly high. “Are you sure?” she asks, and it's less of a question, more of an invitation.

Laura swallows. Her eyes flicker down to Carmilla’s mouth, already curving into a smirk, and Laura wants to say _no_. Wants to kiss her, here, now. Surrounded by books. Wants to kiss her, and not _stop_ kissing her. Break the curse and forge a new one, stay in this moment for the rest of eternity.

Laura wants, wants, _wants_.

(But she _needs_ to back away, and back away _fast_.)

“I’m sure. Totally sure. Yes,” she says, but still does not move. Laura can't bring herself to pull away, return her arm to her side. Can't bring herself to look away from Carmilla’s lips.

The very same lips that curve just a little more, smirk turned smile. “You don't _seem_ very sure, cupcake,” teases Carmilla, and Laura’s heart _pounds_. (She can't, she can't, she can't—

But god does she _want_ to.)

Laura swallows, again, as if that will help her. As if that will give her the will power to _move_. “I’m absolutely, completely, one hundred percent positive,” she says, and it is a lie. She manages to catch her fingers on the book she’d been reaching for, and Laura pulls it out, drags herself away from Carmilla and back into her own seat.

Something flashes across Carmilla’s face — disappointment, Laura will later learn, because she had wanted this just as much as Laura had — and for a moment, she wishes she can rewind time, kiss her instead.

But she can't.

Laura looks down at the book she's holding, and stares. Stares. Keeps staring. It no longer seems capable of distracting her, not when she— not after they—

She sighs.

“I have to go,” Laura announces, and she stands, nearly runs out of the library. Does not look at Carmilla once.

(What she does not know, what she _cannot_ know, is that when she does this, another petal falls.)

* * *

When Laura leaves, it isn't her _rejecting_ Carmilla. She knows that she has to fall in love with her to break the curse, knows that it's going to happen sooner rather than later. But she hadn't prepared herself yet for— that. For it to be a _reality._  

And she's scared.

She's _allowed_ to be scared.

Here’s the catch: when faced with a choice, Carmilla will always, _always_ pick the scenario in which she is the monster. When she watches Laura leave, when she watches her get up and _run_ — Carmilla doesn't realize that it's only temporary. Doesn't realize that Laura is just nervous, just scared, but is still coming back to save her.

Here's the catch: when Laura goes to her room, Carmilla will go back to the east wing, and watch her hope die. (This will be the twenty fifth petal to fall because of Laura.)

Here's the catch:

Neither one of them are prepared for what happens next.

(Sherman has been building an army, and they're finally ready for war.)

* * *

 

The next morning, Carmilla is a beast.

Laura sees it coming, knows to expect it. But when she leaves her room, comes down for breakfast, and sees Carmilla sitting there—

Her heart very nearly stops.

This used to be normal, for her, for them. Except then she was a girl. Except then they were in the snow, laughing, talking, having fun. 

And now it's not normal, not usual. Just sad.

“I’m sorry,” Laura says. “I’m so sorry.”

Carmilla looks up, glances over at her. Signs: _It’s okay_. Signs: _I knew the curse was still there_. Signs: _I didn't expect anything else_.

Signs: _Yesterday was fun_.

Laura smiles, just barely. Just enough for Carmilla to see it. “I’ve never screamed at gods before,” she says. “I’m glad I could do it with you.”

She sits down, across from Carmilla. Pretends that the sight of her doesn't make Laura want to cry. (She wonders what would have happened, if they had kissed. Wonders if the curse would have been broken.

Wonders how many petals are left.)

“I—” Laura falters, goes silent. Gathers her courage and tries again. “I shouldn't have ran. It's just that so much had happened, so much _was_ happening, and I… panicked. But I shouldn't have ran, and I’m sorry that I did. That wasn't— I don't know. We should've just talked it out, and I ensured that didn't happen. I’m sorry.”

 _I don't like to apologize_ , Carmilla says. _But I owe you one, too._

“No you don't,” Laura assures her, as quick as she can. Even quicker. “That was— I didn't— it's not your fault. I froze up, and you egged me on, and that's on me. For not moving away faster. For— whatever. I wanted to, anyways, so it's really a _good_ thing if you think about it. No apologies needed.”

Carmilla’s eyes narrow into a stare, and Laura winces. Oops. _You wanted to kiss me?_ she asks.

“I mean,” says Laura. “I didn't _not_ want to kiss you. You're very… pretty.” Very intelligent. Very charming. Very everything-I-could-ever-want-in-a-wife.

 _Oh_ , signs Carmilla. _So it was because of my face?_

Both of them are quiet, unmoving. Staring at each other like they know precisely how their minds work.

“No,” she denies, slowly, carefully. Like Laura doesn't know why Carmilla could even think that. “Because of your— because you— I don't know. Okay? I don't know. But it's not because of your _face_. It's because you're _you_ , and I happen to like who you are. It certainly didn't _help_ that you're absolutely gorgeous, but I’d have wanted to kiss you even if you looked two hundred and eighteen years old, so. Take that.”

Carmilla signs something, twists her hands too fast for Laura to translate. (Later, she will learn that it means “why the hell do I like you?” and she will smile.)

“ _Anyways_ ,” Laura says, pointedly. “Can we talk about something that _doesn't_ involve me making a fool out of myself? Like—”

“Do you hear that?” Carmilla asks, out loud, which is startling as well as worrisome.

Laura falls silent, strains her ears in an attempt to hear whatever caught her attention. “Um… no,” she says, except. Right there. That's— something, Laura doesn't know what, but it's _there_. “Yes. What _is_ that?”

“People.”

Laura’s heart drops. Her father. It _has_ to be her father. Sherman had promised to come back, she _wanted_ him to come back, but not _now_. Not when Laura had gods to fight and girls to save.

Wait. People, as in more than one person. People, as in—

No.

Laura races to the window. Not this. Anything but this. Her dad would never—

She goes still.

“It sounds like an army,” Carmilla says. Does not stand. Does not dare look.

Laura swallows, tears her eyes away. Turns back around to stare the beast down. “It _looks_ like an army, too,” she says. Then, helpless and so very afraid, she adds, “What are we going to do?”

“It's your dad,” she points out, and Laura wonders if Carmilla can _hear_ him. Through all those people, all those voices, can Carmilla make out her father? “ _We_ are going to do nothing.”

“You can't stop me from fighting—”

Carmilla frowns. “It’s your _dad_ , cupcake,” she repeats. “You can't fight your dad.”

“You said I was Little Red Riding Hood, remember?” says Laura, because she has to fight. She _has_ to. For Carmilla, for _herself_. (Girl turned _warrior_. First step.) “Let me _prove_ it. Little Red Riding Hood doesn't stand by and get eaten, no matter the retelling. I can do this.”

“Fine,” says Carmilla. “But if you get hurt, that's on _you_.” She sounds like she means it, but the look in her _eyes_ — Laura does not doubt that, if she gets hurt, Carmilla will blame herself for it, the same way she blames herself for her parents, for Ell. For the curse. For everything, always.

“Plug your ears,” she requests, and Laura does.

Not even a second later, the beast growls, loud, even louder. Loud enough that everyone in the castle can hear it. Loud enough that everyone _outside_ the castle can hear it. A warning to both parties. (The transition from half-beast-half-girl to full on beast is smooth, as if she’s been forcing it down all morning. Clinging to that last bit of _girl_ , even as her body morphs back into a monster.

There's no girl, anymore. Just beast.)

“Please don't hurt my dad,” Laura requests, because she _has_ to, even if this whole thing is his fault. “I’ll find him. I’ll reason with him. Just please don't hurt him.”

Carmilla leaves the room, shows no signs of hearing her. Laura still knows that she’ll listen. Knows that she will do her absolute best to keep him safe. Because she _knows_ Carmilla. Because she _loves_ Carm—

Oh.

That's interesting.

“Boleyn,” says Laf, the candlestick holder, as they burst into the room. Laura looks down at them, pretends she didn't just think _that_. “There's something you need to know. There's only two petals left.”

Perry races up, as fast as a clock can go, which isn't very fast. “One,” she corrects. “There's only one now. I don't know what happened, maybe the growling triggered it— but there's just the one petal. If it falls, Mircalla will be trapped like this forever. We all will.”

“I guess it's a very good thing,” says Laura, softly, like speaking any louder will somehow change things, “that I think I just realized I love her.”

“Don't tell _us_ , you idiot,” says Laf. “You have to tell _her_.”

Laura runs. Out of the room, through the halls. Down the stairs. All the way to—

Sherman.

Despite everything, her face lights up, and she rushes into his arms. “Dad!” Laura squeals, because it's been an entire month since she last saw him. Because she misses him.

He hugs her, tight as he can. Even tighter. “Sweetheart!”

Laura pulls away, grins when she spots the amount of bear spray he's carrying. “Still all about that bear spray, huh?” she teases, as if she doesn't know it's supposed to be used on Carmilla. Who’s off somewhere, fighting whoever her dad brought with him. Laura sighs. “We need to talk, later, about mom. And— and I need you to stop this. Whatever this is. Your army, or… whatever. I need you to call it off.”

Sherman stares. Stares. Keeps staring, like he expects her to change her mind, laugh it off and say she's just joking. “ _Stop_ —” and he has to stop, and stare some more. “Laura, I’m here to _rescue_ you.”

“But I didn't _ask_ you to,” Laura says, and means it. She's glad he's there, she is, but she doesn't want _this_. “You're my dad, and I love you, but— I’m happy here. My room’s lovely, and I made friends with some of the furniture. I can be myself here, and— and Carmilla isn't that bad. She's actually really nice, and… well, I like her. She's fun.”

“Fun,” says Sherman, slowly. “Carmilla— is that the beast? Are you calling _the beast_ fun?”

Laura winces. “Yes?” she offers. “But dad, you don't understand. It's been a month, and things have changed. Please, just trust me. You _need_ to call off your army.”

“I can't,” he says.

“You _have_ to,” Laura says. She doesn't know how to get through to him, how to convince him. Knows she can't bring up the almost kiss without being accused of having stockholm syndrome. “I know you don't understand, but dad, you _have_ to.”

“No, you don't understand,” Sherman says. “I _can't_. It's not my army.”

“Then whose army—” but there's only one answer to that. “Will. You went to _Will_.”

He looks away, like he knows how bad that is. Like he knows how she's feeling. Laura thinks that maybe he's just looking away because he can't bear to _look_ at her.

“I knew he would help,” offers Sherman, but his gaze stays on the floor. It's hard to believe a man that won't so much as look you in the eyes. (It’s hard to believe a _man_ at all). “I thought I could use his… affection for you against him. I was right.”

“Affection,” she repeats. “You mean _obsession_.”

Sherman winces. “Yes,” he says. “But I needed to get you back. It's been a month, I didn't know if you were alive or dead— I had no _choice_.”

“As of yesterday,” Laura says. “As of _yesterday_ , it was a month. And I love you, but dad, there's no way you could create an army in a _day_.”

“I may have started as soon as I got back,” he confesses. “But you're my _daughter_ , I still didn't have a choice. I had to get you back.”

This is Laura’s _father_.

The thought nearly sickens her.

“Call off the army,” Laura says, orders, _demands_. In this moment, she is less girl, more god. More force of nature. She's only eighteen years old, but here, she feels eternal, everlasting. Feels like something that will always, _always_ win.

An immovable object and an unstoppable force. Laura and Sherman, both impossibly stubborn. What happens when they meet?

(The unstoppable force _falters._ )

“I’ll try to stop the people,” Sherman says. “But— honey? There's wolves, too, ones that followed us here. And I can't stop Will. I don't think anyone can.”

Laura knows this already. Can hear him, somewhere in the castle. Can pick his voice out of the crowd, can hear him chant _let's kill the beast_.

Does not care.

“Get him to stop,” she says. “Or I’m never, _ever_ going to talk to you again. I told you I hated him — I told you I was _scared_ of him — and you didn't even _care_. You don't have any ground to stand on.”

“Do _I_ ?” someone asks, someone _familiar_ , and Laura whirls around. Hands up, ready to punch her way through them if she needs to.

She stares, glances over his shoulder to see if Will is lurking in the shadows. “Kirsch,” she says, automatically, because Laura never hated _him_.

“Hi, little nerd,” he says, attempts a smile. It falls flat, but she appreciates the effort. “I know it doesn't mean much, probably, but. I didn't know that Will was— that he’s so— that murder stuff doesn't phase him. I don't want to be by his side if he's… like this, which apparently he _is_ ,” Kirsch tells her. “So I— well. I’m sorry I didn't step in sooner, or talk him down, or tell him to stop. I should've.” ( _There's a beast running wild, there's no question… but I fear the wrong monster’s released_ —)

“You loved him,” she says, and Kirsch does not deny it. “I can't fault you for that.” _Even if your taste in men is abysmal_ , Laura thinks, but does not say, because now is not the time. Because her own taste in men is nonexistent. “Where is he?”

“He went directly after the beast.”

She curses, under her breath. Then again, louder, so they can both hear her. “Okay, you two— call off the army. Get them to stop. I’ll deal with Will.”

Before either of them can even think of arguing (as if they would, when she looks like _that_ ), Laura is gone, racing down the corridors.

Towards Will.

Towards _Carmilla_.

She shouldn't know where they are, but somehow, she does. Laura takes five different shortcuts and three alternate routes to avoid the mob, to avoid the _wolves_. Makes it there in less than five minutes.

Makes it there in time for Will’s gun to go off.

Laura has just enough time to pray to _something_ , someone that's still on their side, someone that can _stop_ her—

And then she jumps in front of Carmilla.

There is no grand speech, no last words. No declaration of her love. No curse breaking. The bullet rips into her, lodges itself right in her heart. Laura stumbles back, into Carmilla, and then crumbles entirely.

She dies before she hits the floor.

(Will joins her on the floor only seconds later. Carmilla spares no time to process the events, just lunges forwards. Slices her claws through his throat, lets him fall. Watches him die.

It takes thirty two seconds for him to bleed out, and Carmilla does not blink.)

When she looks back at Laura, she knows that the last petal is gone, that it has fallen. Carmilla can feel the curse settle into place, after all these years. Finally, achingly permanent.

She swallows, heart in her throat. She only knew Laura for a month, and yet—

Carmilla kneels down, next to her. There's no heartbeat thrumming in her ears, just an awful silence. “I know I wanted you to save me, but not like this, cupcake,” Carmilla says, conversationally, like she expects her to answer. “So much for that savior business, huh?”

It is silent, for awhile. Carmilla, waiting desperately for something she cannot receive. Laura, unable to give it to her, because she is dead and dead and dead and _oh god_ , she's really dead.

“Please don't leave me,” she whispers, voice cracking. Soul fracturing. “Not after all of this. Not after everything we’ve done.” Carmilla presses her shaking hands to Laura’s neck, as if her hands can find something her ears cannot. “You were supposed to be safe,” she says, falters. Closes her eyes. “I can't do this without you.”

Carmilla pulls herself to her feet. Glares up at the sky, as if looking for something to blame. Something else to kill. (Will is rotting next to her, and it's not enough, it's never going to be enough.)

“This is your fault,” she says, quiet at first, and then louder, and louder, and louder, until she's _screaming_. It’s impossibly painful, slowly ripping her vocal chords to shreds, but Carmilla does not care. Cannot, when Laura is at her feet. “Inanna, I’m _talking to you_. Can you hear me? It's all over. Your quest. The petals are all gone, and the girl is—” the words catch in her throat. “The girl is _dead_. So can't you just— it's been _two hundred years_. I think I’d like to be,” her eyes flicker back down to Laura. “I think I’d like to be dead now.”

There's a flicker of light, shadows whirling across the walls, and then Will is back on his feet. “Little Mircalla Karnstein,” his body says, and Carmilla knows that it's not him. The missing throat, still splattered along the floor, is her first clue. The name is her second, and it _aches_ to hear it. She is Carmilla now, will be forever. For Laura. “I’m sorry that she died. That wasn't supposed to happen this time.”

“Inan—” and then Carmilla stops. “Ereshkigal,” she says.

Ereshkigal offers an extravagant bow. “The Queen of Blood and Ashes at your service.”

“Bring her back,” Carmilla demands, no hesitation. “You're a god. _Bring her back._ ”

Will’s face curves into a smile, and she can see why Laura was afraid of him. He reminds her of many men that she herself has encountered, reminds her of _Vordenberg_. “My sister enjoys this tale. Manipulating a girl until she has no choice but to say no, and then cursing her for it. Giving her just enough hope to think _maybe_ , before her fate is forever sealed. It always ends in tragedy,” notes Ereshkigal. Her eyes fall on Laura. “Inanna deluded herself into thinking that if she did it for long enough, I would return Hastur to her side.”

“I don't care,” says Carmilla, and she _doesn't_. She just wants Laura back. Just wants to hear her laugh one last time, see her smile again.

“Laura did the impossible,” Ereshkigal tells her. “This girl,” and the corpse stops, leans down. Runs a finger down her cheek.

Carmilla snarls, an angry sound.

The god straightens up. “This girl changed the story of the world,” finishes Ereshkigal. “She befriended the furniture, fell in love with you. Didn't run, even though she had plenty of chances.”

“And now she's _dead_.”

Ereshkigal nods. “Yes,” she says. “And now she's dead. That wasn't supposed to happen, the silly girl. I tried to stop it, but alas.”

“Then bring her back,” Carmilla says, again. “I read the stories, Death God. Inanna thought she could get Hastur back because she was _using your power_ to curse us. Don't you want it to end, once and for all? Don't you want this story to finish?”

“And how do you propose I do that?” she asks, merely humoring her. But it’s _something_ , and Carmilla is sure it is because of Laura. ( _You’re not going to get him back. I’ll make sure of that._ _Ereshkigal_ _will make sure of that—_ )

“With me. With my death.” Carmilla looks at Laura, impossibly still. “A life to gamble for a life.” She looks back at the goddess, stares into the eyes of Will’s corpse. “Let me be the last beast. Let that be my legacy. Kill me, the way you should've killed the others. Take your power back. And then save Laura.”

“And if I say no?”

“Then we fight,” she says, easily. “I’m in the mood to kill a god or two.”

Ereshkigal smiles, surprised, somehow pleased. “You think you would beat me? Two hundred years is nothing to infinity.”

“Screw infinity,” Carmilla spits, “and screw giving up. Screw just _letting go_.” She squares her shoulders, ready for battle. Ready for another war. “Laura matters, maybe not to you, but to _me_. She changed the story, remember? So change the story some more. Bring her back. This is _not_ how her story ends, and if I have to kill every single god to prove it, then _I_ _will_.”

“There will be a price to pay,” Ereshkigal tells her. “Your castle will be gone, lost forever to time. The library, your sanctuary, will go with it. Still a beast, but nowhere to hide. Are you willing to lose that, all for a girl?”

Carmilla does not hesitate. “I’m willing to die for her.”

“You will not have to,” she says. “Even death can be merciful from time to time.”

Everything goes still.

A low humming fills the room, quiet enough that even Carmilla has to strain to hear it. The noise grows louder, louder, louder, before cutting off entirely. It leaves the room feeling hollow, as if it has been gutted of something important.

She almost asks what happened. The words are on the tip of her tongue.

And then Carmilla hears the heartbeat.

“Laura!” she gasps, like she wasn't expecting Ereshkigal to come through. She whirls around, falls to her knees. Pulls Laura’s head into her lap, and waits anxiously for her eyes to open again.

Very, very slowly, they do.

“Carm,” Laura says, breathless. She reaches out, brushes a hand against her skin. Fur. “I always wanted to go to Paris.”

Carmilla smiles, teary eyed. “It’s been a long time, cupcake, but I’m sure I’ll make an excellent tour guide,” she promises.

“Do you still—” and Laura has to stop, catch her breath. Her heart is working overtime for all the beats it had missed. “Do you still have a petal?”

Her smile falters, but only at the corners. “No,” she says. “You died.”

Something desperate flashes across Laura’s face, and she rolls over, onto her stomach. Drags herself to her knees.

Ereshkigal sticks out a hand.

Laura’s eyes trail up the arm, all the way to Will’s face staring down at her. She is quiet, for a moment. “Ereshkigal,” she decides, finally. “I hoped you would come.”

Laura grabs her hand, and allows the god to pull her to her feet.

“You brought me back to life,” she says. Her chest still aches from where the bullet hit her, even though she knows the damage is gone.

“I did,” says Ereshkigal. “For the price of a castle, and the end of my sister’s reign.”

“Would you like to make another deal?”

Carmilla is back on her feet in an instant. “No,” she says, forceful. Unable to watch Laura die again. “She doesn't.”

“Hush,” Ereshkigal says to Carmilla, and her mouth snaps shut. Her focus turns on Laura, overpowering all of her other senses. There is only them, and this deal. “What are you bargaining for, my dear?”

“Her humanity,” says Laura. “I loved her before she lost the final petal. Said it out loud, even. Just not to her.” Their eyes meet, and Laura does not blink.  Does not look away. Stares her down, eyes gleaming. “I have enough hope for the both of us. I have enough hope to break this curse, once and for all. Let me.”

“And if I say no?” asks Ereshkigal, the very same question she had asked Carmilla. “What if I think I’ve done enough? Maybe I’ve earned my rest.”

Laura smiles, wide as she can. Even wider. “Carmilla is not the only one capable of killing gods.”

“Girl turned warrior, girl turned savior, girl turned god. I had wondered if bringing you back would make you realize,” Ereshkigal smiles back, but it's friendlier, softer. Less like a cornered wolf’s. “You have my permission to break the curse… sister.”

Carmilla stares.

Laura does not, because she's already turning around, grabbing onto Carmilla’s neck. Tugging her head in, so their eyes can meet.

“I love you,” says Laura, and it is the truth.

The room flashes a blinding white, but neither look away from the other. Carmilla shrinks, claws shortening into nails, fur sinking into her skin. (In other rooms, furniture grows legs, arms. A dog runs down the steps, to greet Sherman and Kirsch, to greet the people standing by them. They have always been very good with words. Good enough, it seems, to stop entire armies.

Perhaps Ereshkigal helped with that, a little.)

It’s only seconds, but it feels like hours before Carmilla is done, back to the girl she’d been the day before. “Well,” she says, a touch lightheaded. “That was a kick.”

Laura laughs, and the sound is beautiful. Of course she's a god, of course she has ichor running through her veins. Her kindness has always been something revolutionary.

Carmilla isn't sure why she's so surprised.

(The black plague was never a believable excuse, for the absence of her mother. Her being a god? That's something Camilla can get behind.)

They turn to Ereshkigal as one, hands entwining back together with the movement. It feels _right_. “Thank you,” says Carmilla, and Laura follows suit.

Ereshkigal, incredibly pleased, nods towards the pair. “Enjoy your life, Mircalla Karnstein,” the god says. She turns to Laura, just taking in the sight of her. Finally, Ereshkigal leans in, presses Will’s lips to Laura’s cheek. “See you around, sis.”

“I always wanted a sister,” Laura confesses. “I never expected to get one in the shape of a god.”

“Family dinners will sure be interesting,” says Ereshkigal. “Have fun explaining all of this to Sherman, little demigod.”

With that, Ereshkigal vanishes.

Will’s body slams into the floor, but neither girl pays it any mind. They have more important things to care about. Like the end of the curse, the loss of the castle. Or, perhaps, before all that— themselves.

They turn, almost subconsciously, towards the other. For a long moment, both of them are still.

Then Laura’s hand is at the back of Carmilla’s neck, and she's tugging her closer, closer, closer, until the gap between them has disappeared. Until their lips finally, _finally_ connect; clash together with the sort of desperation you can only find in the once damned.

Carmilla’s mouth is warm, gentle. Softer than Laura thinks lips have any right to be, but she can't complain, not when it feels so _nice_. Not when she can't think of a single thing better, a single thing more _right_ , than her lips on Carmilla’s.

Her hands hover at Laura’s sides, not quite touching her up until the moment that they do, fingers firm against Laura’s skin. Reassuring herself that this is real, that they're both still alive. That they've _won._  (Laura wonders if Carmilla can feel her racing pulse. Smiles because she knows she can.)

This kiss is nothing short of _revolutionary_. These are lips that have cursed at gods, have screamed _warnings_ into the sky. It's only fitting, for them to end up like this. Together.

Laura, for all her inexperience, drags her even closer, as close as she can get her, and deepens the kiss. She knows that Carmilla won't, knows that Carmilla is kissing her like she's still scared she’s going to _break_ her.

(Laura is kissing back like she _wants_ to be broken.)

“Well, I wasn't expecting to see _that_ ,” Sherman says. Even as they jerk apart, both girls are smiling impossibly wide. Love. They're in love.

It's a wonderful feeling.

“Hi, dad,” Laura says. “This is Carmilla.”

She sticks her hand out. “So, when should I start calling you dad, too, Mister Hollis?”

* * *

This is the story.

Have you heard it before?

(There is a voice in the back of your mind that says, _yes_.

You turn to the girl beside you. Of course there is a girl beside you. She’s all hair and smiles and _teeth_ , and you love her, you love her, you love her. (What sharp teeth you have, says a girl.)

You do not say, _I remember when you were more beast than girl_. You do not say, _I remember the nights I spent thinking about escaping_. You do not say, _I remember you crying after I fell_.

You do not say, _I love you, Carmilla._

You say, “There is a story.”

You say, “Would you like to hear it?”

She turns to you, and she says:

“What's it called?”

You smile. “Beauty and the Beast.”)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as this was part of a big bang, there's art too! you can find it [here](http://solaert.tumblr.com/post/165368457881/carmilla-beauty-and-the-beast-au-this-was-done).

**Author's Note:**

> TIMELINE:
> 
> 1680  
> july 1st: carm is born
> 
> 1695  
> N/A: carm meets ell
> 
> 1698  
> july 1st: 18th bday, curse
> 
> 1726  
> july 1st: stops enjoying turning human
> 
> 1759  
> july 1st: starts hiding so they can't see her
> 
> 1867  
> july 1st: canada exists (yes, i specifically picked for carmilla’s bday to be on this day bc of this)
> 
> 1880  
> N/A: laura is born  
> N/A: her mother “dies”
> 
> 1898  
> june 1st: sherman goes to castle  
> june 2nd: laura goes to castle, switches places, sherman goes home & talks to will, laura has dinner w carm  
> june 3rd: laura learns sign language w carm  
> june 24th [three weeks later]: they have a convo in sign language, laura says she can prob love her eventually  
> june 24th-june 30th: laura reads for the rest of the month  
> july 1st: carm is human for the day, lots of angst & reveals, almost-kiss, ends w Big Misunderstanding  
> july 2nd: sherman’s army appears, laura shot, deals made, the curse breaks, hollstein kiss
> 
> N/A  
> july 1st: surprise! laura has been narrating this whole story, years after it all went down

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] i know we only met (but let's pretend it's love)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15487791) by [LMoriarty](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LMoriarty/pseuds/LMoriarty), [ThatAloneOne](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThatAloneOne/pseuds/ThatAloneOne)




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